


From Here to Kingdom Come

by olivers_box_of_raisins



Category: Magnus Chase and the Gods of Asgard - Rick Riordan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Civil War AU because I have an overactive imagination, Dysphoria, F/M, Other, Poor Alex with all these goddamn nightmares, Slow burn but not really??, Tags will change a lot 'cause I'm really disorganized, What is consistency lmao, irregular updates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-15 08:23:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 38,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13609398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olivers_box_of_raisins/pseuds/olivers_box_of_raisins
Summary: Magnus wishes he could just strike out and build his own life away from everyone and everything he knew from before his mother's death. Instead, he's stuck in his uncle Randolph's mansion, which has been turned into a convalescent home for wounded and sick soldiers of the war.Alex only drafted into the war because she wanted to prove her parents wrong. She figured it would be a short war anyway, right? Well, now she's stuck in a convalescent home for "broken" soldiers. And she'd rather not be broken.





	1. Magnus

“This war has been going on too damn long,” Magnus growled, pulling the bandage taut around the wounded leg of the soldier he was treating. The soldier gritted his teeth and screwed his eyes shut.

Magnus didn’t bother to apologize for the pain; it was necessary if he wanted the wound to heal.

“Magnus, get your sorry ass over here; as much as it pains me to say so, you’re needed here!”

Mallory Keen’s voice didn’t so much as float through the large, spacious room, so much as reverberated through it. Magnus jumped and cursed, tripping over the supplies at his feet. 

“All you can really do now is rest,” he told the soldier he’d been treating. The soldier nodded sullenly, but there was a hint of relief in his eyes.

Magnus crossed to the large bronze doors and shoved through them, peering into the dimly-lit foyer. It was unusual for solitary soldiers to seek shelter at their home. More often it was the remains of a regiment just returning from a battle.

There was Mallory Keen helping two injured soldiers through the doorway, her bright red hair tied up so it wasn’t in her face - at least, that’s what Magnus figured it was supposed to do. Except her knot was halfway ready to fall back into its usual messy loose curls.

The soldiers that Mallory was helping through were both limping, though one was obviously trying to hide his pain with a cocky grin.

One of them was dark-skinned and tall, wearing a tattered Union jacket. Thick, sticky rivulets of blood dripped onto the carpet from a deep gash in his thigh. Blood also dribbled down his temple. 

The second soldier was the one with the bold smile. He had disheveled dark hair and the sharp and beautiful facial features of someone who was dangerously sly and accustomed to trouble. A makeshift cloth bandage covered his left eye, though blood was already seeping through it.

“Well, don’t just stand there gaping, help out!” Mallory cried, gesturing at the bag laden with supplies at Magnus’s feet.

Snapped out of his reverie, Magnus relieved Mallory of one of the soldiers’ weight - the one with the cocky grin. 

“Is it a bullet wound?” Magnus asked, searching for the source of all the blood covering his clothes and face.

“Among other things,” the soldier said, much too lightly to be normal. Magnus could tell his smile was becoming difficult to hold through the pain.

Together, with one arm slung around Magnus’s shoulders to support half his weight, they limped into the large room full of wounded soldiers. He set him down on the nearest empty cot and set to work looking for bandages and supplies. Meanwhile, his patient unbuttoned his shirt and peeled it off, wincing slightly as he did so.

He dumped a clean cloth into a bucket of water and began wiping off the dirt, dust, and grime from the soldier’s face. He pried off the bloody scrap of cloth that had been plastered to his left eye. 

Magnus barely flinched at the swollen cuts and bruises all across his patient’s eye, which was sealed shut and looked infected.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Bullet grazed it,” the soldier said simply.

“It did more than graze,” Magnus scoffed, dabbing at the wound. “It looks like you just barely escaped getting shot in the eye. You have a deep cut in your arm as well, not to mention another near-bullet wound in your side. You’ve lost a lot of blood. How are you still conscious, let alone able to smirk like you’ve just single-handedly won us the war?”

“Ah, but before I received all these wounds - warm gifts from the enemy - I was able to tear down about ten soldiers in just a couple blows,” the soldier said smugly.

Magnus raised an eyebrow. “I am going to have to ask you about that feat later.”

“Of course you will.”

“But for now -” Magnus rummaged through his supplies, coming up with fresh strips of dressing and bandaging the soldier’s head quickly and efficiently, since he’d finished cleaning the wound. “- there’s not much I can do for your eye. I cannot exactly give you sutures there. You might even lose your sight in your left eye.”

“Wonderful,” he said nonchalantly. “I’ve always wanted battle scars.”

Magnus couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not.

“What’s your name?” he asked as he moved on to the gash in the soldier’s bicep, cleaning out the blood and dirt from it.

There was a pause before his patient spoke again. “Fierro. Alex Fierro.”

“Magnus,” he said simply in return. 

Besides the current, fresh injuries, Magnus could see that Alex Fierro had been in many dire, dangerous situations. Long, pale scars told of old wounds and suffering, but some looked more recent - they were still red and puckered.

The wound in his side was long and deep, and Magnus could tell he was going to have to stitch it up. He told Alex this.

He sighed. “I can’t give you anesthesia; we reserve that for the patients who need amputations and such. You’re just going to have to steel yourself and try not to cry out.

“How dare you think so little of me,” the soldier said defiantly, glaring him down with that same cocky grin. “I’m braver than that.”

Magnus rummaged through a few drawers and cabinets before he found the right tools for sutures. He told Alex to lie down on the cot and steady his breathing. 

He went through the all-too-familiar motions of stitching up the wound. Alex Fierro was very obviously trying to pretend that the pain wasn’t affecting him as much as it was.

He didn’t speak any more to his patient, just cleaned and stitched up Alex’s wounds. Besides the big injuries - his eye, side, and arm - he had scattered cuts and bruises that just seemed to be from daily life as a Union soldier.

“You ought not to walk that much,” Magnus advised when he was done. “It might reopen the wound.”

“Oh, I will not be walking for a while,” Alex said through gritted teeth. He was sitting up, swaying slightly. He was pale and sweaty, and there was a distant look in his eyes.

“Well,” Magnus said, looking up to where he could see Mallory Keen treating the other soldier that had been with Alex Fierro, “I have more work to do. Will you be all right here? Do you need anything? Food, water?”

Alex shook his head. “No, I’m fine.”

His mind already seemed somewhere else entirely. Back on the battlefield, perhaps.

Magnus sighed and stumbled on to the next injured soldier in need of treatment, vaguely wondering when the last time he'd slept was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Alex, hair dye hasn't been invented yet.


	2. Alex

After Magnus had left, Alex didn’t have much to do except lie on his cot and survey the room. Of course, this soon became a mind-numbingly boring task, and he became restless. 

He attempted to sit up, but an intense dizzy spell forced him to collapse back on the cot. He tried to cross his arms, but that irritated the wound on his arm.

He wondered how T.J. was doing, if he was okay. He wondered how long he would have to stay at this blasted “convalescent home.” He wanted to get back on the battlefield. 

After an hour or so, he drifted off into a fitful sleep full of blood and gunshots and explosions.

 

Alex awoke when he heard someone enter the room. He struggled to sit up, but he managed it. 

The healer - Magnus, Alex recalled was his name - was standing in the doorway holding a bowl of something.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, setting the bowl down on a cabinet and sitting down next to Alex.

“Horrible,” Alex grumbled, rubbing his eyes. “What is that?”

Magnus handed him the bowl. “You should eat something.”

Alex swirled the contents of the bowl around, watching what he assumed was bean soup slosh around. A roll of bread sat in the bowl soaking up the soup. “Thank you.”

“You should take it easy,” Manus advised. “As I said before, you might reopen your wounds.”

Alex took a big bite of the bread, tearing at it viciously, then gulped down the soup in just a few mouthfuls.

A wave of nausea washed over Alex, making the world spin for a few seconds before his senses returned to normal.

Well, except that Alex never felt normal, per se. She was female now, very much so, and an incessant itching began at her feet and all over her chest. Her head throbbed.

This happened a lot when she was female: she felt wrong in her body, wanted to look more feminine.

When Alex looked up again, Magnus had a bemused look on his face. He was peering at her as if something was different but he couldn’t quite place what it was.

She wondered whether she should tell him, then decided that no, she didn’t even know him; she didn’t know if she could trust him. 

Alex scarfed down the remainders of her food and set the bowl down in her lap, wiping off the crumbs from her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Are you sure you are feeling alright?” Magnus asked, peering at her in concern. 

His warm gray gaze made her blush and stammer. “Y-yes, why would I not be? Besides the obvious, I mean.” She glared at him fiercely, and immediately felt bad when he glanced away in discomfort.

 _Oh wonderful_ , Alex thought. _How does it feel knowing that you can’t even talk regularly to people without scaring them away? He knows you are different, he’s just too kind to remark on it._

“Shut up,” she murmured, shaking her head to dispel the thoughts.

“What?” Magnus asked.

“Nothing,” she said, looking back up at the healer. He was handsome in a scruffy way, Alex thought, with chin-length blonde hair, the pale fuzz of a few days lack of shaving, and worn, dirty clothes. His sharp gray eyes had a weariness that only war could bring about. Dark circles made his skin look paler. “How’s T.J.?”

“T.J.?”

“The other soldier who was with me,” Alex clarified.

“Oh! Er... I don’t know. I could go look for Mallory... she would know, I’m fairly sure she treated him...”

Alex scooped up the last drops of bean soup and bread crumbs from the bottom of the bowl, then set it down on the table beside her cot. The soldier lying in his own bed next to her flicked his gaze toward her, then back to the ceiling he’d been blankly staring at. 

“What’s it like?” Magnus asked quietly. “The battlefields?”

It takes Alex a long time to answer; so long fact that Magnus begins to trip over his own words in his haste to say, “You don’t - you don’t have to tell me, of course, I’m sorry -” but Alex finally speaks up.

“No,” she mumbles, still staring at the soldier in the cot next to her. His head is bandaged, and his eyes are vacant. “I was just... no, I’m alright.”

She tilted her head up toward the ceiling as well, staring at the cracks in the plaster crisscrossing all the way to the walls. She laughed bitterly. “In the beginning, as we’re marching, we are lined up in our ranks, and after the battle, the dead are lying in rows in the blood-soaked grass. It makes you wonder how they’d been breathing, pumping blood just moments before.”

Magnus was staring enraptured at Alex; she wanted to crawl under the bed and hide from his searching gaze.

“Sometimes a shell would burst right above our heads, and the fragments would fall over us like rain,” Alex continued, pantomiming an explosion with her hand. “The very air is filled with bullets, and the empty fragments catch in your hair and fall in your face.

“I saw this one man being carried away after the battle. Half his face was blown off.” She shook her head. “I had never seen so much blood.”

Magnus nodded. No doubt he had treated many wounds like the one she was describing, as well as injuries much worse, probably.

“Magnus, get your ass over here!” A shout from the other side of the large room carried through the air.

Magnus startled, and Alex flinched; another wave of nausea washed over her.

“I’m fine,” she snapped when Magnus shot an anxious glance at her. “Go see what she wants.”

He stood, hovered for a moment, then made his way to where a woman with messy red curls was standing with her hands on her hips. 

They talked for a while, then Magnus nodded in resignation and walked out the large wooden doors into the entrance hall.

He didn’t return until hours later.

Night had fallen, and Alex was lying in her cot staring at the ceiling like the soldier next to her was. She was almost scared to fall asleep, so she was forcing her eyes (more like eye, since her left one was bandaged) to stay open by counting the cracks in the ceiling plaster. It wasn’t working.

Before she knew it, dark gray clouds of sleep had engulfed her, and of course, she didn’t get to rest soundly.

 

Alex dreamed that she was standing on a precipice, overlooking a deep black pit speckled with red where hundreds of nameless, faceless people were falling through. As she watched, the red slowly rose up from the depths of the hole, swallowing up the people, lapping at the edges of the pit like water. Shouts and pleas for help drifted up from the people, but she was too high up to do anything except watch and shake with fear.

Almost all at once it seemed, the red water had reached up to where she stood on her precipice, lapping at her feet and leaving stains on her bare feet. She knelt down, running her fingers through the water, which was thick and sticky. It smelled like iron. Blood, not water. An ocean of blood, and Alex was caught in the middle of it. She looked up, hoping to catch sight of the sky with its comforting colors of blue and white, but all she saw was more darkness and craggy cliffs.

The blood was washing over her feet now, rising faster and faster over her precipice, frothing and growing more frantic by the moment. And as she stared, hypnotized, a figure emerged from the foaming blood. A tall man with dark hair and a thin build. His face was twisted into a perpetual scowl; he would have been handsome without it.

His mouth moved, and even though she couldn’t hear him, she knew what he was saying. _No one is going to accept how you are, and no one should._

Alex backed into the shadows, eyes widening. Of all the people, why her father? Why was it always her father? She’d let go of his ghost a long time ago, why was he coming back now? She covered her ears and screwed her eyes shut, trying to block out all the thoughts rushing through her head; all her senses felt like they were being attacked from each and every side. 

The ocean of blood was rushing and roaring in her ears now, drowning out every other sound; the tang of metal suffocated her nose and mouth; she could feel the blood rising to her waist; her clothes clung to her body uncomfortably; her left eye throbbed; the sea of blood was now rushing so fast and frenzied that it felt like a riptide; she felt like she was being washed away in the tide -

\- And suddenly she was lying on a cot in a large, spacious room staring up at a plain white ceiling with peeling plaster. She leaned over and vomited.

When Alex looked back up, someone was standing over her, though she couldn’t determine the person’s features except that they had blonde hair and a male physique. Her vision swam; she was freezing cold.

The man spoke, but she couldn’t make out anything he said. 

“Stop,” she mumbled, though she doubted anyone could make out what she was saying. “Go away. Stop.”

She covered her ears and tried to drown out the murmurs around her, and the phantom waves crashing against her eardrums. She rocked back and forth, covering her ears and tried to block out the sound of her father’s voice, repeating the same words over and over: _No one is going to accept how you are, and no one should._

_No one should... no one... no one..._


	3. Magnus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so maybe my chapters are short, but that also means my fics always have a shit-ton of chapters, so at least y'all can look forward to that.

Magnus has thought Alex Fierro was in stable condition last he’d checked on him, but the next morning, the soldier had awoken vomiting his guts out over the side of the bed, along with a high fever. So... apparently not.

Magnus had to resist the urge to hover around Alex all day checking his condition almost obsessively. But sadly, he had work to do, so the only time he could check on Alex was on the first morning. He did the best he could to make him more comfortable; throwing another blanket over him to stop his incessant shivering, placing a wet cloth on his forehead, setting a pan at the side of the bed in case he vomited again. Alex kept mumbling about blood and shadows and oceans, tossing and turning in his small cot.

The longer Magnus looked at Alex, though, the less he was certain about the soldier. When he looked at Alex, he couldn’t help thinking he’d... changed, somehow. Nothing about his appearance, really, but something seemed... off, now. 

Magnus shook his head and tore his gaze from Alex Fierro, who was breathing fast now, eyes screwed shut and arms covering his head like he was trying to shield himself from something.

“Magnus!” 

He turned toward the sound of his name being called, and saw Mallory Keen striding toward him with a wide grin on her flushed face. Her red hair was tied in a knot at the nape of her neck, and her skirts were hiked up to her knees.

Mallory grabbed Magnus’s arm and pulled him away from Alex. He shot one last worried glance back at the soldier, but followed Mallory into the entrance hall. “What is it?”

“Halfborn is here,” she said.

Magnus’s eyes widened. “Really? Last I heard, he was in Shiloh.”

“Yes, well, that was months ago. Between then, the big idiot went and got himself in a fight with the colonel whose orders he was _supposed_ to be following, except the colonel said something that Halfborn did not agree with, and now he’s been kicked out of the regiment, and the war.”

“What?”

Mallory rolled her eyes. “He’s been dismissed. The big oaf went and got himself kicked out of the war.”

But her voice was tinged with giddiness and relief.

“He ought to be arriving sometime today.”

Magnus pried himself from Mallory’s grasp. “I have patients to treat.”

What he meant was: he had a certain soldier to fuss over. 

Thinking of Alex Fierro reminded him of something he’d said yesterday. “Speaking of which, how is the soldier who arrived yesterday? The one who came with Alex?”

“Alex? That’s his name?” Mallory said without interest. “Oh, well, he’s doing pretty well. The wound was deep but not fatal, and thankfully it wasn’t infected yet. I think he’ll be healthy enough to go with the next regiment that comes around.”

He nodded, filing away the information for Alex later if he was feeling alright.

Mallory pushed through the large double doors into the bright sunlight of late morning. Magnus shielded his eyes from the light, blinking quickly. He realized he hadn’t even stepped outside in ages. The air was fresher and clearer, not clogged with the smell of blood and sweat and pain.

“I’m going to wait here,” Mallory said, sitting down on the steps of the porch. “I need a break anyway.”

It was true; her hair was tangled, dark shadows under eyes, and her skin was an almost sickly pallor, making the freckles on her cheeks stand out more prominently. 

Magnus stole a glance toward the double doors and then back at the meadows sprawling before them and the mansion. He sighed and sat down heavily next to Mallory. “I suppose I do too. I’m no help to someone if I die from exhaustion.”

They sat there for a while in silence, staring out at the meadows and sky stretching as far as the eye could see. Sunlight warmed their backs, and soon Magnus had drifted off to sleep right on the porch.

 

He was awoken when someone very rudely jabbed a foot into his side. He grunted and sat up, rubbing his neck. It appeared the front porch wasn’t the best place to take an impromptu nap.

He begrudgingly opened his eyes, and was immediately pulled to his feet by strong arms.

Suddenly he was being smothered by wild reddish-brown hair and thick arms. It was meant to be a hug, for sure, but he couldn’t help but panic for a moment, thinking he was being drowned. Drowned in a very thick and wild beard. 

“Gunderson,” he mumbled. “Nice to see you’re alive.”

“You too, Magnus,” rumbled Halfborn.

“Now, could you let me go before I suffocate and go back on that fact?”

Halfborn freed him from his vice-like embrace, and Magnus saw Mallory standing behind her husband. She was beaming, and looked happier and healthier than he’d seen her in a long time.

“I told you he’d be here,” she said, her cheeks flushed with pleasure.

“How is it going, Magnus?” Halfborn asked, slapping Magnus’s back and almost making him topple over.

“I’m doing all right,” he said, righting himself with a bit of difficulty. Oh, how he wished he could have gotten a little more sleep, preferably in a more comfortable spot.

Mallory snorted. “He’s working himself half to death, the beantown. At least the stubble suits him.”

Magnus ran his fingers along his jaw, frowning. “It’s not even really visible.”

“But, enough distracting us,” Mallory said, waving her hand as if to brush away their idle chit-chat. “Now, how did you get thrown out of the army?”

Halfborn winced; even he was scared of Mallory Keen. Rightfully so, too.

“Well,” Halfborn hedged, “in my defense, the colonel is an ass.”

Mallory glared and crossed her arms.

“Fine.” Halfborn’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “He said that black soldiers could not fight as well as white men, so I might have shot him in the leg. You know, just to shut him up.” Almost as an afterthought, he said, “It worked.”

Mallory rubbed her forehead and sighed deeply. Then, after a moment, she started to laugh, slowly at first, but then it crescendoed into a loud, almost manic guffaw. She doubled over, tears springing to her eyes. Both Magnus and Halfborn were taken aback by her rather extreme reaction.

Eventually, though, she stood up straight and wiped the tears from her eyes, breathing hard. “Oh, Halfborn, of course you would. You just can’t help it, can you?”

Halfborn grinned sheepishly.

“Well, at least you’re here,” Mallory said, wrapping her arms around his waist. “Home.”

“But you have to help around the place,” Magnus added.

 

As soon as he could, Magnus had returned to Alex Fierro’s side, telling himself that he was simply checking on his health like a good doctor would check on their patient, and that he wasn’t fussing and fretting for nothing.

Alex was awake this time, and was staring blankly at a wall. But at least he was looking better, and less frantic. Magnus noted that he looked rather pretty with his flushed cheeks a contrast to his tanned skin. 

“Don’t think I don’t see you hovering around me,” Alex murmured, his gaze still fixed on the wall.

Magnus turned red, and meant to back away quietly, but he ran into the bedpost and tripped. He was able to steady his balance, and he leaned against the wall with a big grin plastered on his face, sweating profusely. “No I’m not.”

Alex almost smiled. “I’m fine, if you’re wondering.”

He dropped the fake smile. “I mean, I suppose that’s true, if by ‘fine’ you mean feverish and sad-looking.”

“I am not sad-looking.”

“You’re staring off into the distance with a faraway look in your eyes.”

“Eye,” Alex corrected, pointing at his bandaged eye. “When can it be removed?”

Magnus shrugged. “It’s hard to tell. Could be in a few weeks. If it doesn’t get infected. Speaking of which, I should change the dressings of all your wounds. They’re looking stale.”

Alex closed his eyes tiredly. “On second thought, maybe I don’t feel well enough to sit up.”

“Nice try. I’ll get the bandages.”

Alex really did look better after Magnus had changed the bandages; he’d stopped looking so feverish, and now seemed a bit more alive. Though he was still dizzy and exhausted.

“How did you come to be here?” Alex asked suddenly. 

Magnus flinched. He hesitated before speaking. “My... uncle is the owner of this mansion. I’ve lived here since my mother died. I was the one who convinced Randolph to turn this place into a convalescent home.”

Alex leaned back in his cot, one arm tossed over his eyes. He seemed to be debating something with himself. Eventually, though, he just stared at Magnus and said, “Thank you. For...” He looked like he wanted to say something, but changed his mind at the last second. “For worrying about me.”

Magnus felt like there was more he wanted to say, but Alex stayed silent and still. Even so, Alex’s gratitude warmed his face, and he could feel his mouth twisting into a bashful smile.


	4. Alex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry the chapter's so short, and I'm sorry I keep giving Alex all these horrible dreams.

She still felt cold and tired after Magnus visited her, though decidedly happier.

She lay back in her cot, staring up at the ceiling. She wasn’t one to rethink her words after a conversation, but now she found herself re-evaluating and breaking apart everything she’d told Magnus. “Thank you... for what? Doing his job? Stupid, Alex, stupid....”

He’d hastened to leave her bedside, probably because he could sense there was something off about her. She cringed. This was why she didn’t like human interaction.

Sometimes she liked to imagine another world, another time where maybe she could tell someone how she felt, how she was, and perhaps be accepted. Maybe there might even be other people like her.

And while she was lost in her daydream, she allowed herself to imagine herself with green hair, because why not? She’d always liked the idea of having green hair.

Alex shook her head, dispelling the thoughts. It wasn’t healthy to dwell on fantasies.

So perhaps in another world she could have green hair, and friends who would accept her, and more self-confidence because of it all, but not in this one. So it was best not to think about anything that wasn’t here and now.

Since she didn’t have much else to do besides lie in her cot and let her thoughts chase each other in circles, she drifted off to sleep.

 

Thankfully, it seemed that this dream wouldn’t be as terrifying as the fever-induced nightmare she’d had before.

At least, that’s what she thought as she was placed in a scene full of the smell of wet clay and glaze. In the center of a beige-and-gray paletted room sat an old man spinning a lump of clay in a wheel into a wide, deep vase. Alex kept her gaze fixed on the man, hardly even blinking, enraptured by his movements. She hadn’t seen her grandfather in years, not since he died. 

“It’s why you like pottery, isn’t it? The change?”

Alex startled, glancing around until she spotted an all-too-familiar form with long red hair and a voluptuous figure, half-hidden in the shadows behind a shelf full of drying clay sculptures.

“No,” Alex muttered. “Not you.”

“Is it true or not?” Loki said, stepping out of the shadows. She wore a dress of shining satin, deep green and hypnotizing. “You see it as an escape - the constant changing of the clay, how it shapes itself under your fingers. For you cannot truly change yourself, can you? You’re stuck. In this blasted world, in your own mind.”

“You’re not real,” Alex said, stepping toward her grandfather, who hadn’t moved from his seat and seemed not to notice anything out of the ordinary. “This is just a dream. Like last night, with my father.”

Loki almost looked sympathetic as she said, “Oh, you know better than that.” 

Unfortunately, she did.

Loki waved her hand and the room melted away, along with Alex’s grandfather. In its place rose up a large room with gilded furniture, a high painted ceiling, and a grand piano in the center of it all. A tall window overlooking a field was across from them both.

Loki sat down gracefully on a backless settee near the window, motioning for Alex to sit down next to her. Alex stood where she was.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. “Why show yourself now?”

Loki looked out the window. “Isn’t it funny, how prone mortals are to chaos? It’s almost too easy to manipulate them.” She laughed, a high, melodic sound. Deceptive. 

“What are you talking about?” Alex ground out between gritted teeth. “Get to the point!”

Another wave of her hand and the field was filled with thousands of battling soldiers, one side wearing gray, one side wearing navy blue. Loki smiled almost fondly down at the soldiers fighting and killing each other. She fluttered her hands through the air as if she were playing the harp, long slender fingers plucking at the strings of mortals’ lives. The fighting dissolved into even more chaos, sounds of gunshots ringing through the air.

“What are you doing?” Alex asked, her fist balled at her sides.

Loki smirked. “See? Just a flick of the wrist and they’re causing all sorts of trouble!”

“Did you cause this?” Alex shouted, rushing toward her mother. She wasn’t sure what she was going to do, but she knew she had to stop whatever she was doing to those soldiers.

“Why, didn’t you realize?” Loki asked, turning her wide, amused grin to Alex. “Surely you must have at least had a vague suspicion.”

She stopped in her tracks. It was true - she had thought about the chaos and destruction the war had already caused the country, and had speculated if her mother had something to do with it. But she always pushed the thoughts aside, more concerned with staying alive.

Loki’s grin stretched ever wider. “Oh, it’s true, how easily humans are to control. They don’t even realize the consequences of their own actions. They’ll tear each other to pieces without even realizing it!”

“No,” Alex muttered, swaying on her feet. “No, you underestimate us... we will survive this; we’ve survived much more than this before....”

Loki shrugged. “I’ll give you this, though: your country is quite tough. We’ll just have to wait and see it through, won’t we?”

With one last gesture of her hand, the room, the soldiers, and Loki herself dissolved into the shadows until all that was left was Alex and the darkness, and the memory of Loki’s mocking smile.

"I'll see you soon," said the echo of her voice, so low and unexpected that Alex almost thought she'd imagined it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa, didn't see that coming. I seriously didn't mean for Loki to even show up in this fic (I didn't even mean for there to be a supernatural element to it) but, well, here we are. It just sort of happened.


	5. Alex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize on Loki's behalf.

Alex awoke in a pool of sweat, gasping for breath. Even though she was covered in multiple blankets, she shivered. When she pressed her hand against her forehead, she found that she was burning up. Well, at least she hadn’t vomited this time.

“She’s coming,” Alex panted. “She’s coming, she’s coming here. Soon.”

The soldier in the cot next to her was staring at her strangely, so she took a moment to steady her breathing and wipe the sweat from her face. “I’m fine,” she muttered. “I’m all right; it was just a dream.”

But at the same time, a sinking dread filled her stomach, weighing her down. She couldn’t sit up; it took her all her strength just to keep her eyes open.

“When was the last time your bandages were changed?”

Alex looked around for the sound of the voice, and saw a young woman with large brown eyes and short loop braids leaning over her. She had a box of supplies propped on her hip.

“Er... just yesterday,” Alex said, taken aback.

The woman sniffed. “And are any of your wounds infected?”

“I do not know; you tell me,” Alex snapped. “You’re the doctor!”

“Nurse,” the young woman corrected. “No need to get snippy about it.”

She set down her supplies and set to work unwinding the dressing around Alex’s head. Alex didn’t understand why they had to be changed so often; they felt fine to her. Then again, she didn’t want to die, so she figured it was for the best in the long run.

The nurse clucked when she saw Alex’s wounded eye. “Beginning to swell... what did you do, try to gouge it out?”

The nurse made quick work of disposing of the old dressings and administering new ones. Her moves were practiced and sure, but they lacked the gentleness of Magnus’s touches, which felt like he actually cared that she recover, and not that she was just another job to get over with. 

Plus, Magnus wasn’t too bad to look at, either.

When the nurse had finished with redressing her arm, eye, and side, she stepped back, surveying her work. “You need a new shirt,” she noted. “I shall get one for you. When did you last eat?”

“Ah... about a day ago?” Honestly, she wasn’t even that hungry.

The nurse sighed. “Who’s been taking care of you? Wait here, I’ll get you a bowl of something.”

Alex opened her mouth to defend Magnus, but the nurse was already halfway through the doorway. She wilted and sighed in annoyance. 

“I see you’ve met Louise.”

Alex glanced up and found a tall man wearing a loose, dirty shirt and baggy pants. He had striking golden eyes the same color as his tangled, shoulder-length hair. 

“She’s not the warmest person, but she’s sensible,” the man said, flashing a bright smile. 

Alex frowned. “Who are you?” He couldn’t be a soldier, he didn’t look injured.

“One of the nurses. I’m the only male nurse, except for maybe Magnus.” He thought for a moment. “Actually, he’s rather a mix of a nurse and doctor. He ought to be just checking on patients’ progress and such, but he likes to be closer to his patients.”

“That does sound like him.”

“Oh, you’ve met Magnus, have you? Did he treat you? You probably noticed the care he treats his patients with.”

Alex blushed. “I like it.”

The man didn’t say anything, just leaned against the wall and grinned like he knew exactly what Alex was feeling.

 

The days passed in a blur of changing bandages (Magnus and Louise alternated between caring for her), staring at the ceiling, just thinking (for there wasn’t much else to do), and brief, fleeting conversations with Magnus (which seemed to be the only things that kept Alex sane). She also talked often with the man with the golden eyes. She learned his name was Jack, and he was... interesting to talk to, at least. A bit strange, but of course, who was Alex to judge? She herself was odd.

Jack often talked about Magnus fondly, and it was obvious that they had a long history. Whenever Alex asked about him, Jack looked amused and happily supplied answers.

“I always thought that, if he didn’t have such a big responsibility here at the mansion, he’d pack up all his things and leave everything he knew before his mother’s death behind - especially his uncle,” Jack said one day. “I think Magnus blames him for his mother’s death, you know. At least partially.”

Alex opened her mouth to ask what happened, then paused. What if Magnus didn’t want anyone intruding on his history? If he wanted to tell her, then he would. She knew what it was like to have someone intrude on your personal life, and she hated it.

“His uncle owns this mansion, right?” she asked instead.

Jack nodded, looking thoughtful. “Randolph Chase. He lives here, but you wouldn’t ever know it since he almost never shows himself. He likes being mysterious and elusive, I suppose.”

Alex leaned back in her cot, staring up at the ceiling. By now she’d memorized every crack and spiderweb and pattern in the rafters and peeling plaster. 

She found that it was easier to deal with the incessant discomfort and anxiety that came with being female, and being unable to change something, anything about herself to feel more like it, if she just detached from everything. She thought it would even be better if she could at least tell someone about it, but alas.

“How’s Magnus?” she asked.

“Still working with very little breaks,” Jack sighed. “And he needs a shave.”

Alex had seen Magnus recently, and she actually thought the bit of pale stubble suited him. 

Even she could see how he worked twice as hard as any other nurse or doctor in the whole mansion. He would stay at a patient’s side just long enough to check their wounds or tend to any other needs they might have before moving on to the next patient. Then, instead of taking breaks with the rest of the nurses, he would take the time to talk to the soldiers. His presence seemed to supply its own kind of healing; it was like he radiated warmth and comfort. Alex felt it, too.

She caught sight of Magnus pushing through a crowd of nurses to reach a soldier’s bedside, where he chatted with him amiably as he dressed the soldier’s wounds.

Alex had almost forgotten about her mother’s visit in her dreams. She’d almost been able to push it to the back of her mind, and focus on other subjects. 

_Almost._

Her thoughts kept drifting back to Loki’s mocking words: _Oh, it’s true, how easily humans are to control. They’ll tear each other to pieces without even realizing it!_

She shook her head, trying to dislodge the thoughts from her brain. She’d been living in constant dread of her mother’s visit ever since that dream; she hadn’t seen the trickster in person in years.

“What are you thinking about?” asked Jack lazily. 

“Nothing that matters,” Alex lied smoothly.

“Well,” Jack said, pushing off from where he was leaning on the wall, “I ought to be checking on some people. I’ll see you around.”

Alex nodded in acknowledgment of his words, and continued to think about her mother, against her better judgment.

 

Over the days, Alex slowly regained her health; her fever went down (thankfully, she had no more strange dreams), and her wounds were healing well (Magnus told her so happily). Louise made sure she ate well and was comfortable, acting all the much like a mother hen. It still unsettled Alex that Magnus looked at her differently when she was female, like there was something about her he could not understand. Alex’s only relief was when he was male.

Magnus informed Alex that T.J.’s wounds were also healing well and he was recovering quickly. “He’s still not allowed to walk, though,” he said.

One evening, a cold, brittle one, Alex was talking to Magnus during one of his short breaks. Alex was scarfing down a bowl of bean soup and bread, like she’d had each day for dinner since she got here. She wasn’t going to take it for granted, even if she was getting seriously sick of the thick substance. It was more of a stew than a soup, she thought.

“Couldn’t T.J. be moved closer to me?” Alex asked after swallowing the remainder of the bread. “It gets lonely, you know.”

Magnus cocked his head. “Yes, we could do that, I suppose.”

“Wonderful.” Alex grinned. “Now; what’s happening outside? Any news to report?”

He thought for a moment. “Antietam. Maryland, just yesterday. I heard Halfborn talking about it. More than twenty thousand casualties in just one day.”

She winced. “Who won?”

“Union, though we lost many. At least it ended Lee’s campaign to invade Union territory.”

Alex sat back in her cot. “Good. We’ve been losing too many battles lately.”

At that moment, the woman Alex had come to recognize as Mallory Keen, came running toward them, out of breath and looking irritated.

“We have a visitor,” she said, her Irish brogue thicker than usual. “And not the usual kind, either. A woman; wealthy, too, if the carriage is any sign. She’s asking for you.” At this, she looked at Alex, confusion etched across her face, though she was trying to hide it.

Alex immediately sat up straight, trying not to panic. A wealthy woman, asking for Alex? There could only be one person who fit that description.

_I’ll see you soon._

“Alex?” Magnus asked, gazing at her in concern. “Are you alright?”

“Just wonderful,” she managed, but she could feel her chest constricting, her vision tunneling. “Just... I need a moment.” And though it physically pained her to say it, she whispered, “Yes. You can bring her in now.”

Magnus still stared at Alex with lingering worry, but she brushed it off. She couldn’t afford to look weak in front of her mother. 

“Do you want me to leave?” Magnus asked after a moment’s hesitation.

Alex weighed the options. Let Magnus stay, and have to introduce him to her scheming, power-hungry mother, or send him and his warm support away to protect him from Loki.

She did not know where this sudden solicitous behavior toward the healer came from, but all she knew was that she now felt responsible for the safety of him and everyone in this whole convalescent home. Dammit, why couldn’t Loki just stay out of Alex’s life for once? 

And so Alex found herself nodding, and pushing him away. “Go. I do not need you here for this. You have other work to do anyway.”

And she found herself ignoring the look of hurt flash across his face, even as he struggled to compose his expression into that of blank forbearance.

He turned away and did as she asked, crossing to the large double doors that opened to the entrance hall. Alex lost sight of him when he turned the corner and up a staircase.

She sighed, convincing herself that it was for the best.

After a minute, Mallory returned with a woman following behind her. The woman walked through the room and past all the soldiers with her head held high and her hips swaying with every step. Maybe it was the long, flowing red hair, or the velvet dress that swished around her legs each time she moved, or the way she seemed to float instead of walk, or the devious eyes and smile that seemed to strip you bare of all your defenses with one look, but she held the entire room in her thrall.

Alex glared her down the whole time it took for her to get to her bedside.

Loki snapped her fingers and a plush chair appeared next to her cot; even the obvious display of magic didn’t faze the humans. They didn’t even seem to notice it.

With a swish of her hand, everyone else looked away, suddenly enraptured with anything but her and Alex. Though Loki had seemed to be enjoying the attention.

“My darling Alex,” she said, smiling in a way that someone who didn’t know any better might call warm. “How have you been?”

Alex held her head high and smiled wryly back. “I’ve never been better. Oh, unless you count the shelled eye, the stitches in my side and arm, and the terrible nightmares.”

Loki sighed. “You were always so dramatic. I see that hasn’t changed.”

“And you were always so evil,” Alex mimicked. “I see that hasn’t changed either. What are you doing here?”

Loki studied the large room full of bustling nurses and recovering soldiers. “A mother can’t pay her daughter a visit every now and then?”

“No,” Alex said through gritted teeth. “Not when she’s a murderous trickster who doesn’t give a damn about what happens to her daughter either way.”

“You wound me,” Loki said, her hand fluttering over her chest in mock indignation. “Now, what about that young man, the one with the beautiful gray eyes? Magnus, was his name, correct?”

Alex’s eyes widened, and she involuntarily lunged at her mother (which caused a twinge of pain in her side), suddenly clutching the front of her dress and glaring into her eyes fiercely. “No. Not him. You are not going to touch a hair on his head, or even think about doing so.”

Loki merely looked amused as she flicked her wrist, forcing Alex back into her cot with so much force that she hit her head on the wall. She flinched and rubbed her head. Her wounded eye throbbed.

When she tried to attack Loki again, she found that she couldn’t move from her cot. If looks could kill, well, then Loki would be dead three times over. 

“Ah... so there might be more to this Magnus character than I first thought,” Loki said, “if he’s received such an intense reaction from my daughter. I wasn’t threatening him, you know.”

“Sure you weren’t,” Alex growled. “As if that isn’t your exact style of getting what you want. Like you did with Samirah.” Against her own will, she could feel hot tears welling up, and she choked back a pathetic sob. She must not appear weak in front of her mother. “Samirah...”

“So who is he?” Loki acted as if she hadn’t heard Alex. She looked around, searching for him. Alex was so glad that she’d sent him away before her mother arrived. “No matter. I am not here for him. I trust you’ve heard of Antietam?”

Alex nodded mutely.

Loki sighed, running her hands through her hair. “Yes, it was getting rather dull after Shiloh, so I decided, _It is about time for something different; something that will shock everyone._ Well, in short, almost 23,000 dead in one day! A new record for me, I think.”

Alex spat at her mother’s feet. “You heartless, evil, bloodthirsty -”

Loki wagged her finger. “Ah ah, don’t talk to your mother that way.”

Alex opened her mouth to shout even worse obscenities at Loki, but she found that her vocal chords weren’t working. Her blood was boiling now, her vision turning red, her limbs trembling, trying to get out of their invisible binds. Her breath was becoming short and panicked.

Loki stood up, glancing around. She was the picture of serenity with her fingers interlaced and resting in front of her and her sharply beautiful features outlined by the setting sun. 

“I shall be staying around here for a while, I think,” she said. “It’s quite picturesque.”

All at once, the tightening binds around Alex’s limbs and throat loosened, and she fell forward, gasping for breath.

When she looked back up again, Loki was gone, and everyone was still talking and working like nothing out of the ordinary had happened.


	6. Magnus

Alex probably had a very valid reason for sending him away. Even so, to make up for it, Alex would tell him all that had happened, and who that mysterious red-haired woman was that had shown up so suddenly. Alex wasn’t the type to keep secrets; he would explain it all in due time.

Magnus had repeated this in his mind so many times that he’d almost convinced himself it was true.

But deep down, he knew that this was something Alex had never wanted anyone to know about and that he would keep it to himself as long as he could.

There was something... off about the red-haired woman; she was just a little too beautiful, just a little too regal, just a little too ethereal. She moved with an otherworldly grace, shone with the light of someone who wasn’t fully human.

And the way Alex had looked so frightened and angry when Mallory told them about the woman. A deep-rooted fear that ran stronger than one could fully understand. He’d tried to hide it, but Magnus had seen right through it. He understood it. 

It wasn’t like Alex to be afraid of something. Magnus wondered what had happened to provoke such a reaction from the soldier.

He was only snapped out of his musings when he tripped over the last step in the stairs, which was higher than the rest for some reason. He’d always hated that step. He stumbled and caught himself just in time before he would have crashed to the floor. Dammit, he needed sleep. 

“What are you doing up here?”

Magnus glanced up and almost fell over again. Standing in the doorway of his office, was none other than his uncle Randolph. Magnus hadn’t seen the man in months, and he could see that he’d grown years older in that time. His beard was in need of a combing, his glasses were askew, and dark bags under his eyes betrayed his exhaustion, despite the almost feverish brightness of his eyes.

“Er - just - this is my home too!” Magnus stood straight, glaring at his uncle in an effort to look intimidating. A difficult feat when he wasn’t all that tall, nor that strong, and didn’t even feel fully conscious. “This is my break, I have a right to get some sleep!”

With that, he pushed past Randolph and made for the room at the end of the corridor, which he could never come to think of as his own and, either way, was much too large for his tastes. No matter. He would give anything for just a couple minutes of sleep.

He stumbled into the room and collapsed on the too-spacious bed, not bothering with the covers. He passed out instantly.

 

Magnus awoke much later than he’d intended, when the sun was already dipping below the horizon and the room was illuminated by the dying orange rays of sunlight, the rest of it drowning in thick, tangible shadows. He was lying face first in a heap of pillows, almost suffocating himself. He sat up, running a hand through his hair as he tried to get his bearings. When he realized what time it was, he had to resist the urge to bolt downstairs and make up for the lost time; he had patients to treat, nurses he needed to give directions to, doctors he had to speak to; he had to talk to Alex -

Magnus took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing, spiraling thoughts. Someone should have told him what time it was; someone should have woken him up. He was behind schedule now, and sure, he did feel better rested than he had in days, but what was that compared to the dozens of patients whose health came before everything else?

He hurried to the stairs, straightening and smoothing out his clothes as he did so. He ran his hands through his hair, but only managed to make it even messier.

Halfway to the staircase though, he ran into Uncle Randolph again. He still looked overwrought and exhausted, but there was also a gleam of glee in his expression, where there would have just been emptiness before. 

“Magnus!” he called, running up to his nephew and grabbing him by the shoulders, jostling him. “I think I’ve figured it out! I think I know who’s behind it all.”

Magnus shot a glance toward the stairs. “That’s wonderful. You can tell me about it later, all right?”

Randolph frowned. “No, no, Magnus. Look, don’t you see, it is a breakthrough. I may finally be able to avenge them, Caroline and Emma and Aubrey!”

His uncle had said this many times before, only to hit a dead end and descend into an even deeper obsession with catching the creature that had killed his family. He suppressed a sigh, telling himself to be patient.

Randolph led Magnus into his study before he could protest that he had work to do. His uncle sat down at his desk, pulling out many pages of notes and photographs, then flipped through a few dusty books to find certain paragraphs or images. 

“A friend in Boston contacted me a while back,” he explained, so excited that his words tripped over themselves in his hurry to get them out. “He said that he had new information that he’d scrounged up from the wreckage site. A single jeweled brooch. It does not appear to be much, right? It couldn’t lead me to anyone or anything concerning my family. That is what I thought at first when I was told of this brooch. I was wrong, ever so wrong. This brooch has a symbol on it, two serpents intertwined to form an ‘S’ shape. Look, here’s a photograph. You might be wondering how this relates to anything. Well, it is the symbol of Loki, the ancient Norse trickster god.”

“What do you think it means?” Magnus asked after a moment. He probably shouldn’t encourage his uncle’s unhealthy obsessions, but Randolph was staring at him intently, as if waiting for a reaction as strong as his own.

“Well, is it not obvious? Loki, the god of mischief is behind it all!”

Magnus shook his head. “Just because you found a brooch with this pagan god’s symbol on it in the wreckage doesn’t mean that he is the cause. That sounds far-fetched, even for you.”

Randolph’s grin faded. “Magnus, don’t you see? This is a breakthrough, a breakthrough I tell you! Here, I have been studying these documents, it’s beginning to make sense, all of it. The sudden storm out of nowhere, it seemed suspicious to me, there really was no warning.... And even the war! I think I might have found evidence that Loki may have been the center of it all. See, he is orchestrating it all; who knows how long he’s had humankind under his thumb?”

Now, this went past all of Randolph’s insane theories. A Norse deity, controlling the war and all of mankind? Where had all these ideas come from? 

Magnus looked over the old documents, but could hardly make sense of it - the tomes were all handwritten, with compressed, thick script that devoured the pages. Sprinkled in with the dense font were old, crude drawings of various symbols and emblems - lots of pictures of the symbol that Randolph had described, of the two serpents, but there were also images of the trickster god Loki and the myths he was featured in. 

Flipping through the books and notes, he only seemed to be scratching the surface of Randolph’s research. There were notes written in the margins of the books, diagrams and drawings, bookmarked pages and underlinings of certain blocks of text. His uncle really did seem to believe that this trickster god was controlling all the actions of humankind, from the war happening right now to the smaller things such as his wife and daughters’ deaths. 

As he studied the detailed depictions of Loki, he couldn’t help but think the god of mischief and strife looked almost eerily like the strange woman that had come to visit Alex. Same red hair, same sharply beautiful features with a mischievous smirk. But he shook his head and convinced himself his imagination was running wild.

“But why?” he asked, finally looking up from the research. “Why cause all this bloodshed and death?”

Randolph stared at Magnus with a blank look on his face. “For the sake of destruction and chaos, of course. He delights in the hopeless plights of mortals.”

Magnus pinched the bridge of his nose, screwing his eyes shut. “If that is what you believe. But... Uncle Randolph, doesn’t it sound so insane, even for you? Gods don’t exist, and neither does magic or... all of this. It’s mythology, nothing more.”

His uncle was becoming agitated. “But all mythology is based on truth. Perhaps not all of it is accurate, but might there still be truth in these stories? I tell you, this brooch and my notes and research are all the hope that I have left of avenging their deaths.”

Magnus knew that there was no swaying his uncle’s obsession with his wife and daughters’ deaths. He refused to believe that it had been a natural storm at sea, nothing supernatural or unearthly about it. So he stayed locked in his study most of the time, poring over new documents and constructing new, crazier theories than the last ones as to a reason for his family’s deaths. 

So he just lowered his head and slipped past his uncle, muttering about how he had a job to do, and that they’d talk later, knowing all too well that later would not come for a long time. Randolph did not protest or move to block him from the exit. 

Back downstairs, things were as loud and busy as ever. Magnus caught sight of Louise, who was talking to the man Alex called T.J. (He’d been moved closer to Alex as he’d requested.) As they spoke, a rare smile flitted across Louise’s lips, despite her efforts to suppress it. T.J. grinned in triumph, as if he’d been waiting to make her smile for quite some time with no success.

The mysterious red-haired woman was nowhere to be seen. When Magnus looked out the window into the front path, neither was her opulent carriage. 

He entered the next room, where Mallory Keen was ladling soup into bowls and handing them to the soldiers that could manage to walk. He hurried over to her, frowning. When Mallory spotted him, she passed the bowl she’d been holding over to the next soldier in line, then let another nearby nurse take over her job.

“It’s nearly nighttime,” Magnus hissed. “Someone should have woken me.”

Mallory glared right back and propped her fists on her hips. “It isn’t my job to inform you of when you should be working. Besides, you need the rest either way. I was being generous.”

Magnus growled in frustration. “But... you know I’m busy, and yes, sometimes I... neglect my own health, but that pales to the fact that there are other people who need me!”

“People who need you in your best shape,” Mallory argued. “Right now you aren’t of any use in your current state. Here, eat.”

She scooped up a bowl from the pile on the table and poured a portion of bean soup into it, then shoved it into his hands. Her clipped, forceful movements spoke of no room for argument. Magnus didn’t intend to, and scarfed it down in a few mouthfuls, having just realized how hungry he was. Mallory watched on in stern satisfaction.

Before he'd even finished the bowl of soup, Mallory snatched it from his hands and set it next to all the other dirty dishes. Magnus protested, but shut up quickly when Mallory shot him a Look.

She went back to ladling soup into the soldiers’ bowls, glaring when one whistled at her. “I have a husband, thank you very much,” she retorted. “Now, shoo.” She waved him off like one might do for a stray cat.

“I spoke to Randolph,” blurted Magnus after two other soldiers got their supper. 

Mallory’s head whipped around, immediately interested. “What was he like?”

Magnus looked out the window. “Still mad. He’s convinced himself that his family’s deaths were caused by some Nordic deity. And if that weren't enough, he also believes that the war is all being orchestrated by that same Norse god.”

Mallory stared quizzically at him and didn’t respond.

“He’s researched this god quite thoroughly, though, I’ll give him that,” he said, almost as an afterthought.

“I almost feel sorry for that man.” Mallory shook her head. “But on another note,” she said, peering past the line of soldiers lining up to get food, “after that woman came to visit Alex, he isn’t looking so good. Keeps staring off into the distance and jumping at every little sound. He lashes out at everyone, too. Maybe you can talk to him, make him feel better.”

Magnus was startled. “Why me?”

She looked at him as if he were a particularly dense idiot. “Well, he seems to... respond more to you than anyone else, obviously.”

He raised his eyebrows skeptically. “Again - why me?” 

Mallory frowned at him. “I do not know. Why don’t you ask him? Now, go! You were the one who was grumbling about not having gotten any work done.” 

She pushed him out of the room, slamming the door in his face after throwing a towel at him. He had no idea when the hell she’d gotten it, for he was certain she hadn’t had it in her hands two seconds ago. Maybe it was one of her many strange abilities that seemed to manifest at odd times. Like how she could sometimes draw daggers from seemingly nowhere in a split second if she felt vaguely threatened, or wanted to look threatening. Perhaps she had pockets in her dresses for some reason - Magnus wouldn’t put it against her to have pulled something like that, she could be rather paranoid. 

He shook his head, dispelling any contemplations about Mallory’s strange antics. Although he had always wondered why she was so intent on appearing intimidating; what had happened to her for her to be so defensive all the time? 

Alex was indeed acting tense when he arrived at his bedside. His eyes were shifty and anxious, and he kept fidgeting with the bandages on his arm, causing them to fray and tear.

“So who was that?” Magnus asked, taking his usual seat next to Alex. He rested his hand on the soldier’s restless hands, waiting for them to still.

Alex jumped at the touch. “No one. What does it matter to you? It does not concern you.”

Yes, he was definitely avoiding Magnus’s eyes. Why? 

“Well, people like her don’t really come around here that often,” he said. “As you may have noticed, wealthy, pompous folk don’t have much place in a convalescent home in between the North and South.”

“Oh, she’s much more than wealthy and pompous,” Alex muttered under his breath. Magnus didn’t know how one petite, injured person could hold so much withering hatred in just one eye, and focused on an inanimate object no less, but he managed it. He glared at the bedframe for a few uncomfortable moments before seeming to remember Magnus was still sitting next to him, staring at him quizzically. 

“Sorry,” Alex mumbled. “I just... no, I don’t want to talk about her. Why are you here?” 

“Well, you’re picking off your own bandages. I thought I should save you from reopening your wounds.”

He looked down at his arm, as if just realizing how he was scratching at the wound incessantly. “Oh,” he said, letting his arm drop.

Magnus rummaged through the drawers next to Alex’s bed, noting that they were running low on bandages. He unwound the fraying gauze and crumpled it up, then made quick work of inspecting and redressing the wound. It was healing slower than it should, he noticed. Alex might not be able to fully move his arm for a long time.

He was beginning to pack up his dwindling supplies and leave when he felt a soft tugging on his sleeve. He looked down to see Alex holding on to his coat’s sleeve, managing to look both defiant and embarrassed at the same time.

“How many more patients do you have to treat?” he asked, scanning the room.

Magnus looked around, pinpointing the soldiers he should check on. “Er... just a few, I think. Why?”

The soldier looked down. “I thought... maybe you could stay for a while.”

Despite himself, Magnus found that he was smiling. “Well, I’ll make my rounds quick.”

Alex grinned faintly.

 

Night had fallen with a complete and total darkness by the time Magnus had actually checked on all his regular patients, as well as covering for other nurses and doctors if they asked him to. But when he casually walked past Alex’s bedside (he didn’t want to wake him if he’d fallen asleep) he found that the soldier was still awake, staring out the window with a distant look on his face.

“You’re lurking,” he said, turning to look at Magnus, his one amber eye glinting eerily in the darkness.

“And you’re acting odd,” Magnus retorted. “Are you trying to scare people off?”

Alex crossed his arms and raised his chin. “Maybe it’s a survival instinct.” 

“That makes no sense.”

“In my experience, it’s better to frighten people and have them stay out of your life than it is to let them manipulate and ruin you. It may be a lonely lifestyle, but it’s a safe one. For yourself, and for the people around you.”

Magnus tipped his head to the side. He really did sound like he was speaking from experience, and that made Magnus wonder who - or what - had hurt Alex to make him as untrustworthy as he was now. The blood in his veins boiled at the thought of someone having hardened Alex from the world. But then again... wasn’t Magnus the same way? Ever since his mother’s death, he’d kept everyone at arm’s length, deciding to focus on those that he had a chance of saving.

Maybe everyone in this whole mansion was paranoid and terrified, though they might not let it show, even to themselves.

When he looked back down, he found that Alex was lying curled up on his cot, fast asleep. He snored lightly, and his fists clutched at the blankets. Despite this, Magnus had never seen him looking so peaceful; there was no trace of the worry or confusion or even the wry sarcasm that usually crossed his features when he was awake. No, now he just looked younger, smaller, more vulnerable.

Slowly, careful not to wake him, Magnus pulled the bedsheets over the soldier’s sleeping form, then glanced around the large room - nearly everyone was asleep, save for a few nurses bustling around taking inventory of supplies.

Magnus slumped in his chair, taking a moment to make himself comfortable, before he closed his eyes and let himself drift off to sleep next to Alex.


	7. Alex

Alex awoke feeling very decidedly male that morning. He rubbed his eyes and blinked multiple times, trying to adjust to the bright sunlight. 

The first thing he saw was Magnus, still sound asleep in his chair by Alex’s bedside. A trickle of drool hung from the corner of his mouth, and his hair was even more disheveled than it usually was. He sat slumped back in his seat, practically falling out of his chair.

Alex suppressed a giggle. He’d never seen Magnus looking so... well, childish. So unlike the tired, serious person he was when awake. 

Alex almost didn’t want to wake him, but he wasn’t given the choice. Louise came stalking up to him, a vaguely irritated expression on her face, and whacked him over the head with a roll of bandages, which didn’t seem very heavy, but they were effective. Magnus woke with a start and almost toppled out of his chair. He righted himself clumsily and wiped the drool from his mouth, looking sheepish. Alex did laugh at that, but Louise shot him a look that made even Alex shut up. 

“You should have woken him,” she scolded Alex. “You know how much work he has. Wake up, you lazy louse! It’s past dawn and you can’t afford to sleep in until noon like some of your patients!”

Magnus rocketed to his feet, shaking his head as if to throw off the cobwebs of sleep from his mind. “All right, all right! Where’s the fire?”

Louise snorted. “No fire. Just your work.”

Magnus surveyed the room, taking in the nurses and doctors already going about their daily routines, then looked out the window by Alex’s bedside, trying to determine the time of day from the position of the sun.

“It’s about seven in the morning,” Louise informed him. He flinched and glanced at Alex apologetically. 

Alex waved his hand. “I’ll be fine; I’m not a child. Besides, Louise said I might be able to get up and walk soon.”

Magnus whipped his head around to stare at Louise, who shrugged and said, “He’s been pestering me about it for a while, so I said that to shut him up.”

Alex sat up and glared at Louise. “You _lied?_ I trust you with my health and you lie to me about it?”

Louise snorted. “No need to be so dramatic.”

Alex turned to Magnus hopefully, asking the question with his eyes. 

He just let out a short, wry bark of laughter. Then his face turned serious again. “Absolutely not. Not for another two and a half months _at least._ ”

Alex sat back in his cot and crossed his arms, ignoring the dull ache that the action sent through his arm where he’d been stabbed with a rebel’s bayonet. He pouted. “T.J. was shot in the _leg._ And he is up and walking already.”

Louise frowned as if this were new information for her.

“But you were stabbed,” Magnus retorted. “Almost clean through your side. Would you like to walk with a cane for the rest of your life?”

“I wouldn’t mind it,” Alex muttered sullenly, “if it means I can still walk.” He’d had plans for today. Loki had said she was going to stay near Magnus’s mansion, and that meant she was a threat to everyone here or in the general vicinity. She might get bored and launch a full-scale battle nearby. Alex was determined to confront his mother soon, and had hoped that might have even been today. But Magnus had dashed his hopes, or maybe he’d just made the obvious apparent again. Alex could never take on Loki by himself, in the state he was in. 

Louise coughed, reminding both of them of her presence. “While you two bicker, I’m going to check on T.J.” She turned to Magnus then, shooting him a disapproving look. “Meanwhile, you might want to make yourself useful, instead of arguing with one of the patients.”

Magnus blushed. “Yes, of course.” 

And just like that, Alex was alone again, free to spend the rest of the day stewing in restless and bitter energy. Perfect. He couldn’t even find Jack anywhere in the room of busy nurses and doctors. 

“I could do with a book, at least,” he murmured crossly. 

He did not find any books in the vicinity, neither did he expect to. Eventually, he settled into glowering at the opposite wall, eyes half-lidded in boredom. 

He began to search the room, not exactly sure what he was looking for. Louise was fussing over T.J., even though he didn’t seem to be in any pain or discomfort. When he tried to protest to her fretting, she snapped and bunched her hands in her skirt as if to remind herself to keep her irritation in check. Alex figured she was chastising him for overexerting his leg wound. T.J. shot a glance towards Alex’s bedside and shrugged in a _What can you do?_ kind of gesture. Alex smirked back at him.

He caught a glimpse of Jack, but he was deep in conversation with another doctor. 

Magnus was back to flitting about the rooms ordering around nurses and physicians, counting supplies, and trying to tend to everyone’s needs at once. 

Alex smiled softly and rested his head against the wall. A spider was scuttling across the ceiling, just beginning to weave its web in the corner.

Alex remembered how he used to be fascinated with spiders. He didn’t remember why; just that he’d loved them. He’d even spent many of his days hunting his father’s estate searching for a few to keep as pets.

On Alex’s eleventh birthday he remembered how all she’d wanted was to hide in the undergrowth of their backyard for eternity, watching the spiders work diligently at their webs, creating something that was solely their own, for no one else but themselves.

How pathetic could she get, sitting here being envious of spiders? She was ruining the new suit her stepmother had gotten her, and she dug her gleaming new shoes into the dirt, gaining a twisted satisfaction from seeing the shiny surface cloud up from the fine soil. 

She’d protested so much that day. The itching and pain in her body were horrible that day, and it only worsened when he was forced to put on that suit for his grand birthday gala. She thought she could survive maybe a few hours, but as soon as her father pulled out the _“why must you be so ungrateful?”_ and _“why can you not act normal for just one day?”_ cards she’d fled in a mess of tears and angry curses at her father. 

So she found herself curled up hiding in the backyard shrubs with tears streaming down her cheeks and leaves and twigs entangled in her hair. The itching in her legs was worsening with every second that passed in that dreaded suit and waistcoat. 

She was just starting to wonder if it was worth it to risk getting caught sneaking into her room so she could change when a familiar voice interrupted her thoughts.

 _“What is wrong, darling?”_ Loki asked.

Alex glanced up, and found her mother standing right outside the bush she was hiding in. She was wearing a sultry red dress with jewels that glinted in the sunlight. _“Birthday went wrong?”_

After a moment of surprise, Alex nodded miserably, wiping her nose on her sleeve.

Loki handed her a pearly white handkerchief, much too pretty to use to wipe your face with. Nevertheless, Alex blew her nose into the handkerchief.

That was when Loki still cared about maintaining the lie that she loved Alex. And when Alex was still too naive to see through her act.

 _“What happened?”_ her mother asked.

Alex stared intently at a ladybug resting peacefully on a twig. _“I hate him.”_

She didn’t elaborate; she didn’t need to. Loki had listened to Alex’s rants over her father many times over. 

_“And he said he was going to renounce me,”_ Alex mumbled. _“My name, my claim to the estate, everything. He actually seemed like he meant it this time.”_

_“What did you do this time?”_

Alex ducked her head. _“I said I wanted a dress.”_

Loki brushed her fingers across Alex’s shoulder comfortingly. _“I might be able to arrange that.”_

Alex was sure her entire face split into a grin, betraying her true desire. Loki reached out and helped her crawl out of the shrub, then waved her hand.

Now, Alex recalled that beautiful dress as clearly in his mind as if he were wearing it now. A simple pink-and-green gown that she’d thought was worthy of a princess at the time. She was able to sneak it into her room and wore it whenever she could. She’d treasured that dress for three years. She didn’t care that no one could see how pretty she looked in it; that dress was for her and her alone. 

Alex rather missed that dress now. Eventually, her father had found it hidden under her bed and tossed it out the door, along with a few of her belongings and Alex herself. And just like that, she’d been disowned; discarded from her own family like a pair of gloves her stepmother had worn only once.

As he watched Magnus flicker from one person to another, sometimes pausing to chat with someone, he was also reminded of the day he’d known he was different. Today was a maze of memories, he supposed.

Alex had been younger, maybe eight or nine, and his grandfather had been teaching him how to use the potter’s wheel he kept in the shed. Alex had been begging for him to mentor him for months now, and he’d only now given in to Alex’s wishes.

He watched his grandfather carefully mold the clay under his steady hands, transfixed. His grandfather spoke in calm, even tones, demonstrating when to lift the pressure his hands were delivering to the clay so that it didn’t give way under his touch, and where to place his hands so the clay came out smooth and a consistent width. 

Then, Alex caught sight of a strange figure lurking in the shadows of the doorway, their face obscured. There was a man standing there, dressed in a fitted white suit and a pristine white hat, a faint grin gracing his sharp features. His eyes glinted with something Alex couldn’t discern, and it unnerved him.

He was so wrapped up in watching the stranger that he only realized that he’d ruined the clay piece he was working on when his grandfather rested his hands on top of his.

Alex glanced down, and was vaguely startled when he saw that he’d kept his hands to the clay for so long that he’d worn it right through. It was already collapsing under his touch. 

He apologized profusely to his grandfather, but the old man just smiled his usual warm smile and said that they could start over, no problem. 

But Alex stole another glance at the strange man standing in the doorway, and hastily asked to be excused. His grandfather’s face took on an expression of mournfulness, but just as quickly he shrugged and began to clean up the pottery wheel. He suggested that they start over tomorrow. Alex agreed and rushed to the door. He was young, and too curious and whimsical to just dismiss the strange man haunting him. 

Alex’s grandfather didn’t seem to see the man, but that only added to his intrigue.

The mysterious man looked down at Alex with a questioning look. Alex stared back up at him with wide eyes.

 _“Alex,”_ the man finally uttered, in a voice low and cold. It sent shivers down his spine, the way he said his name. Like it didn’t even belong to Alex. _“I’ve always dreamed of meeting you. How pretty you’ve grown.”_

Alex looked down at his feet, confused. He knew he was much too thin and angled for his age. He looked back up at the man, studying his face for any signs of insincerity. _“Who are you? And why can’t my grandfather see you?”_

The man let his mouth curl into a cold approximation of a smile, the way Alex sometimes did even at his young age. _“Your grandfather isn’t allowed to look upon me. Most people aren’t. But you... well, shouldn’t my own child be able to see me?”_

Alex wasn’t able to comprehend his words. So he just kept gazing up at the man, eyes full of question and confusion.

The man tilted his head to the side. _“I’m Loki. I’m your mother.”_

 _“But you are a man.”_ It was all Alex was able to grasp from his words. He’d never known his mother, true, and his father didn’t talk about her, unless it was to curse her out for leaving him with only Alex. 

Loki shrugged. _“Nevertheless. You are my blood. My child.”_

Alex squinted up at the man, searching for any features that might be feminine. He couldn’t find any. 

Loki sighed, and before Alex’s eyes, he started to change. His figure became curvier, his hips filled out. The smart suit transformed into a simple white gown.

Alex blinked, but the woman standing in front of her didn’t change back into the man he’d seen just seconds before. She was... still the same person, though, he could tell by the same sharp features and eyes, and the red hair that was just a bit longer now.

Loki fluffed his - her - hair, running her fingers through the strands and letting them come away longer until the thick red waves hung down halfway her back. Something fluttered in Alex’s chest - and emotion that he couldn’t quite place.

 _“As you can see, it’s a little trick I can do,”_ Loki said, shrugging. _“It is just the way I am, I suppose.”_

Alex’s face twitched with a wavering smile. _“If I am... your child, could I do that too?”_

Loki smiled apologetically. _“No, I do not think so. You’re still mortal, unfortunately.”_

Alex stepped closer to Loki, reaching out his hand to touch the soft fabric of her dress. A hesitant, warm feeling was growing in his chest. He did feel a little strange at times, a tingling pain that would grow in his legs and crawl up to his body and face, tugging and pulling at his skin and bones and emotions. He could never quite place the reason for it. But staring up at Loki, this woman claiming to be his mother, something clicked. And a thought grew in his mind. What if he could be like her? One minute male, then... female? Was that possible for a... what word had Loki used to describe him? Mortal? He was almost afraid of the answer.

But Alex had never been one to run away from his questions. So he voiced his musings.

Loki smiled, a little warmer this time. _“That would be up to you, wouldn’t it?”_

Before Alex could respond, she disappeared. Not in a flash of light or a cloud of smoke, but in the moment between thoughts. Like she’d just flickered out before Alex could comprehend her not being there. 

That night, Alex pondered everything that had happened, everything Loki had revealed. After many hours of lying awake staring at the curtains swaying gently in the wind drifting out from the open window, Alex came to a realization.

Maybe he really was more like Loki than he first thought.

 

Alex hadn’t realized that he’d fallen asleep until he jolted awake at the sound of someone talking in hushed tones standing over his cot.

He cracked his one good eye open and was startled to find Magnus sitting in his usual seat by his bed. He was staring at a fixed point out the window, seemingly lost in thought and mumbling to himself.

Judging from the soft light filtering through the window, it was nearly dusk. Alex had slept through most of the day. Well, it was better than lying awake doing nothing, he supposed.

Magnus looked paler than usual, and his eyes dulled. Alex strained to hear what he was muttering about, but he only caught a few words. Many curses, but also: _Randolph. War._ And, the one word that chilled Alex to the core: _Loki._ Could it just be a coincidence? Of course not; coincidences didn’t exist. 

What did Loki have to do with any of this? With Magnus’s uncle Randolph, of all people?

Alex lay there for a few minutes, not even daring to breathe, until he couldn’t stand Magnus’s sad puppy eyes any longer. Honestly, it was impossible to resist the mournful look on his face; it didn’t suit him.

Alex waited until Magnus had stopped muttering, then looked up at him, a faint smile crossing his features. “I just remembered - you never asked me how I single-handedly defeated ten soldiers in just a few minutes.”

Magnus startled; he seemed to have forgotten he was there. He clutched a fistful of his shirt, wrinkling the fabric. “Dammit, don’t scare me like that. I thought you were asleep.”

Alex stretched. “I don’t exactly have anything better to do to pass the time, true.”

“So? Are you trying to kill me with anticipation?”

Alex grinned, and let his head fall back onto the pillow. “Well... as you very well know, I was stabbed in the shoulder. Damn rebels; forget trigger-happy, they love their bayonets. Well, one of them went running for me, but his friend was going for T.J. I wasn’t going to let that happen. I wasn’t really thinking; instinct took over, I suppose.

“I pushed the one who had stabbed me into the dirt; I think I might have broken something in his face. Right before the other rebel was going to stab T.J. in the heart, I got to him first. Or, rather, I jumped in front of him and took the blow for him.” He wrinkled his nose at the memory. He remembered everything so clearly: T.J.’s wide panic-filled eyes, the smell of blood and feces and fear, the glint of the rebel’s bayonet. Everything but the pain, strangely enough. That was a blur.

“I wasn’t going to let that stop me, though. I discarded my gun.” He glared at Magnus. “Do not look at me like that. And no, I don’t know what I was thinking then.”

“Please don’t tell me you fought him with your bare hands while you were injured,” sighed Magnus.

Alex grinned triumphantly. “That is _exactly_ what I did. Ah, Maggie, you know me so well.”

“Please do _not_ call me that,” he muttered. But his cheeks turned pink and he didn’t protest the nickname further.

“Never underestimate the power of a fist and sheer anger,” Alex continued. “I took him out along with about five other rebels who tried to get near us. T.J. was in no shape to fight.”

He heard someone call from a few beds over, “Neither were you, and that didn’t stop you! You were babying me, don’t deny it!”

Alex cackled as T.J. frowned. Magnus sighed in frustration, but it was obvious he was holding back a silly grin. 

Alex allowed himself to bask in that smile for a moment; that smile was what he’d been looking for. _Success._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am fully aware that this chapter is not worth more than a month's wait. I am also aware that flashbacks are a dirty, lame trick. But... goddamn, writer's block is a lil bitch. I was so focused on finishing chapter 6 that I didn't realize that I had no idea what was going to happen afterward.... :'|


	8. Magnus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um.... it says Magnus POV, but it's kinda just all over the place, whoops.
> 
> Enjoy this choppy, semi-fluffy chapter if you can, I swear it gets better next chapter 'cause I got Plans (TM).

The days slipped by like water through their fingers. September drew to a close, the days grew shorter, and the months soon passed by with little to note - except for, of course, Fredericksburg. At the end of December, a surge of wounded soldiers - both Union and Confederate - sought shelter at Magnus’s convalescent home, as it seemed to be the closest one by for both sides. 

There weren’t many protests from the soldiers at having to share space with the “enemy.” They just seemed tired of all the constant fighting. Fredericksburg had been costly, after all.

Magnus was busier than ever; they hadn’t had such an influx of wounded and sick since the second battle of Manassas. He couldn’t remember the last time he got to sit down and take a breath that wasn’t choked with the tang of blood or the heady scent of anesthesia. Neither did he have time to just... talk. With Alex. With Jack. With the other nurses and doctors for more than a few seconds that it took to deliver clipped orders. 

Christmas came and went with a few minor celebrations among the nurses and patients. The past year had been taxing on the mansion’s resources, and they had no other way of replenishing the money they’d spent. They were relying on Randolph’s family inheritance to get them through the war. 

So there were a few more fanciful dinners than usual and a few gift exchanges, but that was all. Magnus barely noticed, knowing that this holiday was just a reminder of another year gone and past, with the war still raging.

 

About a week into the new year, Randolph’s mansion was paid a visit by a group of soldiers who seemed to be passing through. 

There were four of them, two of them only about sixteen years old and scrawny. Nevertheless, they all wore equal expressions of giddiness and disbelief. When Mallory went out to see what was going on, one of them shoved a slip of paper into her face. 

“Look!” he cried. “I still can’t believe it.”

Mallory snatched the paper out of his grasp and peered at it. As she read, her eyes got progressively wider. She turned on her heel and pushed through the door to the room where most of their patients were resting. She held the paper up for everyone to see, then started reading from it before most people could process what was happening.

“‘By the President of the United States of America: a Proclamation. Whereas, on the twenty-second day of September, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and sixty-two, a proclamation was issued by the President of the United States, containing, among other things, the following, to wit: 

“‘That on the first day of January, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and sixty-three, all persons held as slaves within any State or designated part of a State, the people whereof shall then be in rebellion against the United States, shall be then, thenceforward, and forever free.’”

She looked up from her recital, an expression of hopeful disbelief on her face. She turned back to the paper quickly at the expectant looks of the nurses and patients alike. No one dared speak.

Her eyes skimmed over the words, muttering under her breath as she read along, “Er... ‘I, Abraham Lincoln... by virtue of the power in me vested as Commander-in-Chief,’ ... What does _that_ word mean? ... ‘Including the military and naval authorities thereof, will recognize and maintain the freedom of said persons,’ that is good.... ‘And I further declare and make known, that such persons of suitable condition, will be received into the armed service of the United States to garrison forts, positions, stations, and other places, and to man vessels of all sorts in said service.’”

She glanced up before reading through the rest. “‘And upon this act, sincerely believed to be an act of justice, warranted by the Constitution, upon military necessity, I invoke the considerate judgment of mankind, and the gracious favor of Almighty God.’”

There was a pause before she muttered, “What a mouthful.”

Magnus cast a glance at T.J., who was sitting statuesque in his cot, his eyes wide and hesitantly hopeful.

Then someone sitting in the corner threw something into the air - a roll of bandages. It unwound in the air and fell to the floor with a dull _thump,_ where it continued to unravel across the floor. It finally landed at T.J.’s bedside.

When everyone turned to glare at him, Alex looked around, shrugging. “Well? This is an accomplishment! We ought to be celebrating....”

An unspoken agreement hung in the air: the soldiers from either side of the war would try not to kill each other, or fight over this new proclamation from the president. Hell, some people in the room didn’t even recognize Lincoln as the president.

That didn’t mean they could celebrate together. Alex, realizing this (probably know this all along), huffed and crossed his arms - his signature move, Magnus had come to realize. “You are all idiots,” the soldier said. “Can’t we put aside those stupid prejudices and rivalries for once?” 

“That’s what the war is about,” Magnus muttered. Alex shot him a look, a warning to back him up despite his questionable logic. 

Magnus cleared his throat. “What he means to say is, don’t kill each other over this new... development. After all,” he said, glaring out at the masses of expectant and flustered soldiers, "this is still _my_ convalescent home, and I can just as easily kick you out."

T.J. was sitting awfully silent next to Louise, who still looked rather stricken.

“My mother would’ve wanted to see this,” he murmured. “It was her one dream, the one that hadn’t been beaten out of her, despite losing a child, despite a lifetime of hard labor and horrible treatment. She would have been so happy that she’d hug me for ten straight minutes.” He laughed, hoarse and quiet. “She wouldn’t even wait a day to throw down her plows and tools at her master’s feet and march right off that damned plantation.

“She might have been just a few years short of freedom.”

The room was deathly silent, hanging on each shy, resigned word.

Louise slumped down beside him, a wistful, regretful look in her eyes that somehow made her look younger. They were only talking to each other now. “My mother didn’t trust anyone after Papa died. She won’t trust that slip of paper either, I know it.”

Her face hardened, and just like that, she was regular old Louise again. “I remember once, when I was trying to get her to escape with me and a group of other slaves, she said that she couldn’t care less about herself, that she’d already lived too long to be able to enjoy the freedom, knowing that she could have had it her entire life if the circumstances had been different.” She shook her head. “I never understood what she meant by that. It didn’t make any sense... take what you can get, right...?”

She looked up from staring at her clenched fists only when T.J. nudged her, his face understanding. Her eyes widened as she took in the large, silent room full of people watching her as if she would crack and shatter like glass at any moment, and bristled. “What are you all looking at? Don’t you have things to do, places to be?”

They all snapped out of their trances, looking away with red faces at having intruded in such a quiet, personal moment. That these hardened, worn soldiers were still embarrassed by such small things, Magnus found intriguing.

 

The days following the Proclamation were... interesting, to say the least. It was definitely surprising to see that most of the soldiers kept their peace. There were scuffles between rebels and Union soldiers, and even between soldiers on the same side, but the rest didn’t seem to have the strength to fight over anything at this point.

Four days after the two soldiers came by with news of the Proclamation, Magnus had just broken up an argument between two Union soldiers. From what he could tell, they were fighting over whether or not the new colored recruits should be paid the same as the other soldiers; if they ought to be paid at all. They began to brawl, but that was when Magnus had to cut in. He wondered if T.J. really had to deal with this on a daily basis. 

Magnus asked him so when he later saw the soldier.

T.J. nodded, looking nonchalant. “Yes, that seems about right. Right now I get ten dollars every month, but it is actually seven, with the cost of clothing.”

Magnus’s eyes widened. “That isn’t fair! White soldiers get thirteen, don’t they? They don’t have to pay for their own uniforms.”

T.J. stared up at him, dismay written on his features. “There isn’t any point in protesting the rules when they won’t change. I am just glad they let me carry a gun. Hell, at first, they wouldn’t even let me enlist, but I soon won them over with my charm.” He flashed a toothy grin. Magnus was certain he’d only been allowed to enlist when the Union began running out of white volunteers.

“Still,” Magnus mumbles, glaring at the two Union soldiers from the corner of his eye. They flinched and turned away, sullen. They were relying on him to heal their wounds and cure their illnesses, after all, and they couldn’t chance to get on his bad side.

“You ought to have a nice long talk with your superiors,” Magnus heard Alex call, a few feet away. “If that does not work, you have my permission to fight them one-on-one.”

T.J. raised an eyebrow. “Is that a challenge? Then I accept.”

“As soon as we get out of here, you’ll confront the general and tell him to his face what you think about him,” Alex said gleefully. “Or else you are _gone._ ”

T.J. nodded in all seriousness. “I accept your challenge.”

Magnus felt like he was witnessing a secret conversation and had no idea what was going on. So he backed away and happily found a basket of tightly packed, rolled-up bandages. He started meticulously pulling them out one-by-one, unwrapping them, and wrapping them back up again. 

He heard T.J. laugh, and saw Alex beam from the corner of his eye. 

Then he felt a tugging on his sleeve. He glanced down and was startled to see Alex sitting up in his cot with a sly gleam in his eye, practically hanging on his arm like a cat. 

“You don’t have to feel so left out, Maggie,” he said. “You are part of this friend group as well.”

Magnus dropped the rolls of bandages, sighing. “I told you not to call me that.”

“Would you prefer... what is it Mallory calls you? Beantown?”

“No, that’s even worse!” he cried, laughing.

T.J. rolled his eyes. “You two...”

Alex glared, though the look was laced with playfulness. Nevertheless, T.J. shut up immediately.

Alex nudged Magnus’s shoulder, and Magnus nudged him back. They continued like that for a while, acting like children who fancied themselves as sweethearts. T.J. was highly aware of this.

Louise sat down next to him, spreading her hands over her skirt in an attempt to smooth out the wrinkles. “They’re close, aren’t they?”

T.J. nodded. “Does it make you feel jealous?”

Louise frowned. “Why would it? Magnus and I were only ever acquaintances.”

“No, I mean their relationship. Have you never wanted something like that? Something so effortless and charming?”

Louise cocked her head, staring at him with a blank expression. “I thought I already had that?”

T.J.’s eyes widened, and he glanced around the room as if searching for whoever she was talking about. Louise, on the other hand, demonstrates one of her longest sighs. “You fool. I thought we were friends.”

It took him a moment to process what she’d said. Then his face broke into a wide grin. “I got Louise herself to befriend me. Now that is what I call an accomplishment.”

 

Randolph had decided to pack up all his things and travel to Boston to find out more about his supposed “lead.” He wanted Magnus to look over the mansion while he was gone. As if he didn’t do that already. 

“What more do you think you’re going to find?” Magnus protested. “It isn’t like you are going to track down this Loki character through some damned brooch.”

Randolph paused in the middle of throwing a bundle of clothes into a pack. Magnus was surprised he even remembered to pack clothes.

“Why do you not believe me?” his uncle asked. He seemed genuinely puzzled. “This might even stop the war if I found and caught Loki. I know you would do anything for that.”

He had hit home. Magnus wavered by the doorway. He decided he’d humor Randolph.

“But... are you sure about this? It’s been years now, and you have barely...” He stopped mid-sentence at Randolph’s glare that was equal parts appalled and offended.

“All right, do what you want,” Magnus said, backtracking. “I will stay watching over the mansion while you’re gone.”

“Or you could come with me...,” his uncle mused. “You might finally understand what I am trying to accomplish.”

As much as it would be nice to leave this stuffy convalescent home once in a while, Magnus couldn’t leave his patients, and Randolph knew it.

Magnus just left out the fact that he was also staying for another reason. A specific person....

 

Randolph left, with hardly a farewell to Magnus or the teams or nurses and doctors. Magnus surprisingly didn’t mind - a sense of fragile peace had fallen over the mansion despite everything.

January melted into February, and that, in turn, gave way to March. The days were getting progressively warmer, which made Magnus feel giddy.

Alex’s wounds were healing well - he was now able to walk around short distances (though with a heavy limp and sometimes Magnus forced a cane into his hands), and the gash in his arm was almost fully closed up. The eye wound was still questionable, though. It was definitely a tricky thing to deal with. Alex kept telling him to stop worrying and fussing over him, but Magnus couldn’t help it. Was that not his job, after all?

Mallory was enjoying her time with her husband - the knowledge that the war wouldn’t snatch him out of her hands again making her heart lighter. She and Halfborn could be heard bickering good-naturedly (and sometimes not-so-good-naturedly) almost all the time, providing an oddly comforting perpetual noise.

Louise and T.J. seemed to be getting along well; Louise spent lots of her free time talking with T.J. in the shade of the hemlock trees in the expansive backyard. She seemed looser, happier than Magnus had ever known her to be, and she could be seen wearing a smile that more resembled contentedness than her usual tight one. Magnus didn’t know T.J. as well, but he could tell the soldier was also happier than he'd been since who knew how long. 

They could almost forget that a war was going on.

One evening, as Magnus and Alex were sitting on the porch, Alex brought up a question he’d never thought about deeply, let alone talked about. Alex did that a lot, made him think about things that he hadn’t really considered before.

“How did your uncle become... the way he is?”

Magnus was too startled to answer for a moment. He couldn’t seem to meet Alex’s eye as he answered, “His family died. Lost at sea years ago. After that, he became convinced that it couldn’t have just been ‘a storm.’ he keeps trying to find evidence of the supernatural or fantastical. But... I don’t really know the rest. It happened so gradually that I probably didn’t even realize it at the time.”

Alex thought about this for a moment. “Believing in the fantastical is so much easier than believing it was just chance,” he said. “I understand that. At least, I used to.”

“Then what happened?” Magnus asked.

Alex shrugged. “I found that the fantastical is not as... enjoyable as some may think. Sometimes it is worse than chance.”

Magnus shot a bemused glance at him, but he didn’t elaborate.

“Now he thinks some old deity is in control of everything,” Magnus continued. “That’s why he left so suddenly. Because of some brooch found in the wreckage of the ship his family drowned on.”

Alex raised his eyebrows. “Oh, what pantheon?”

“Norse, I think. But what was that specific god’s name...?”

Alex’s brow furrowed, growing apprehensive.

Magnus snapped his fingers. “Aha! Loki!”

But when he looked over at Alex, the soldier was sitting as still as if he were carved from marble. When you read about people becoming motionless for one reason or another, you hear about a stricken look frozen on their face. But no, Alex just looked... blank. Like he couldn’t even decide on what emotion he ought to be feeling right now.

Magnus nudged him. “Did I say something?”

Alex startled and stared wide-eyed at him. “I’m sorry. I think I am just... not feeling well. Yes. It’s chilly out, that’s all. Just... cold and unpleasant.”

“You’re rambling, Alex,” Magnus said, raising an eyebrow. When Alex didn’t respond, he simply leaned closer to the soldier, letting him rest his head on his shoulder. The air really was boisterous and frigid despite the bright sunlight. Spring couldn’t seem to decide what weather it wanted to have throughout the months. 

“You’re like goddamn sunshine,” Alex murmured. It was true, though - Magnus had a perpetual scent of forest life and what could only be described as sunlight about him despite his job that was filled with so much blood and steel and the sickly sweet smell of chloroform.

Magnus simply smirked and hummed in acknowledgment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to tell me if any of the characters are ooc! I'm like 96% sure most of them are at some point or in some way, and I'd appreciate it if someone pointed out what specifically.


	9. Alex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently, my mind kind of shuts down any other kind of writing style at 1 am and just turns up the angst and symbolism instead. The product is this chapter. Enjoy :^)

_Tell him. Tell him. Tell him tell him tellhimtell -_

Alex’s thoughts were driving her mad. Ever since that conversation with Magnus two days ago, that conversation that had started out so normal and had quickly turned into a disaster, and, sadly, no amount of warm hugs was going to change that. 

Of course, how could she even begin to tell Magnus about her relation to Loki? And would that involve telling him about herself? The way she couldn’t even decide on the answer to a question that ought to have been automatically written out for you at birth. 

Before, Alex would have never even considered telling anyone her secret. But now she wasn’t so sure. The way Magnus looked at her was not in any way normal to her. He was much too prone to staring, and it simultaneously unnerved, flustered, and delighted her. That fact that anyone would even look at her as if she were a human being was so inconceivable...!

Oh, how could she possibly risk that all for the truth?

Obviously, her dilemma was enormous and she’d been thinking of hardly anything else for the past two days, deliberating over the same points, pros and cons and worries.

On the third day, she told herself to stop _wondering_ and start actually _thinking_ of ways to tell him. After all, it would either end in disaster and ruins or... better than that. She couldn’t allow herself to get her hopes up.

_Magnus,_ she began, _there’s something you do not know about me. I am... well, there isn’t a word for it, but I am not exactly male. At least, not most of the time. I know it sounds very confusing, but... Agh! This is not going the way I want it to, even in my head._

She took a deep breath and started over again, but she soon hit a dead end. This continued for the next few minutes until she finally huffed and tried to quiet the incessant murmurs of _Tell him, tell him what?_ in her head.

She could not just give up, though. She owed Magnus that much. And the ever-present, ever-confusing emotions that were caused by the simple things, like his unknowing compassion, or his humor. 

Wasn’t there a word for that? Alex couldn’t think of it.

Every time Magnus passed by her bedside, sometimes stopping to say a word or two, sometimes just giving her funny looks in an effort to make her laugh, she felt a tugging in her chest that urged her to tell him the whole truth.

Before Loki went and ruined it for her, as she inevitably would.

So she waited until nightfall when there might be a lull in Magnus’s duties. She wouldn’t allow herself to rehearse her speech two thousand times because that would just wreck her nerves even more.

Finally, as the sunlight was fading and turning a pale orange, Alex grabbed her cane (stupid as it was, it helped her to walk) and slipped behind Magnus as he was stacking fresh bandages on a shelf in the foyer. She tapped him on the shoulder, cheeky grin already in place, though even she could tell it looked forced. Magnus would surely notice immediately. 

Magnus jumped, dropping two rolls of bandages. He turned around, brows furrowed. “Please don’t let that become a habit of yours.”

“Too late; third time’s the charm.”

He hastily skipped over the pleasantries. “So? What concerns you?”

Alex chewed on her lip. So it really was that obvious, or at least to Magnus it was. He was not making this any easier.

Alex motioned towards the back door. “Can we talk in private?”

Once they were outside, Alex took her time settling herself comfortably on the porch, resting her cane beside her, breathing in the sharp night air. Until Magnus started to get restless, and he opened his mouth to ask her what this was all about.

Alex silenced the bickering voices in her head with a loud and stern _Shut up!_ Then she took a deep breath and looked away from Magnus’s face, which was much too sincere and curious to not make her feel vulnerable and riddled with anxiety.

“I never knew my mother,” she began, diving right into it. “It never rather bothered me, because I figured if she abandoned me with my father, then she couldn’t be any better than him or my stepmother. So that was that, no more fuss.”

She inclined her head slightly, deliberating. “Until, of course, I actually met her. She was... not what I expected, to say the least. A person of honeyed words and a mysterious history, she drew me in with her lingering shadows. She flitted through the rest of my life inconsistently, showing up around the manor every month, year or so. At first, I thought it was because she cared about me. She did nice things for me, and at the time I didn’t really realize that disappearing in and out of my life wasn’t exactly normal for a family like mine. I didn’t exactly have anyone to model her after.” Alex laughed ruefully. “I was very gullible then.”

She couldn’t tell him about Samirah, though. Not yet. Maybe not ever. And though it pained her to hold this crucial bit of information to herself, something told her Magnus wouldn’t protest or press her.

So she skimmed over that part, squeezing her eyes shut. “Then... I upset her. Which is an enormous understatement. She went berserk, did something I - I’ll always regret.”

“If it was your mother who did it, then you shouldn’t regret it as if it were your fault,” Magnus said.

Alex groaned and pulled at the roots of her hair. “But it is! If I hadn’t upset her -”

Magnus snatched her wrist, glaring at her, though it was laced with some other emotion she couldn’t place. “No. I went down that dark rabbit hole once, and I can tell you it is not worth it. You cannot change what happened, or what someone else did. I am not telling you to get over it, but don’t let yourself be consumed by self-blame.”

Alex froze. She knew how Magnus didn’t really like physical contact, but now his eyes were steely and certain. 

She nodded weakly. “Alright. _Alright._ ”

“You don’t have to continue,” said Magnus. 

Well, it was too late now. She might as well suck up and get through with it. 

She picked up farther into her story, tripping over her words now. “Despite all this... As much as I hate to admit it, she helped me discover a part of who I was - am. Specifically, the fact that I wasn’t always a boy. Sometimes - most of the time, actually - I felt feminine. It sounds” - she laughed abruptly - “very strange, I know. But it is not my place to make you understand if you do not want to. For me, it’s just... incomprehensible to simply stay one sex my whole life. My mother helped me realize that. Though I am certainly not even close to fully understanding it myself.”

When she looked back up at Magnus, she expected to see him looking disgusted, or angry, or at least amused, as if he did not believe her. But his face didn’t display any of those emotions. Instead, he sat there looking pensive - as if he was actually trying to understand her... situation? Condition? 

After an eternity and a half, he glanced over at Alex. His usually blank gray eyes now had a spark of curiosity flickering in their depths. “Would it be rude if I asked what it’s like?”

“You don’t think that I’m lying? Or that I’m joking? Or I’m just confused, or I’m mad, or an aberration, or -”

His eyes widened, slightly angry, slightly distraught. “You’ve had too much time to think about this, haven’t you? But no, I don’t think you are any of those things. I just want to know more about you.”

About _her._ She did not know where to start, now that she knew someone was interested. Rational side of her brain be damned, no matter how loudly it was yelling at her to get a grip on her emotions. “Well... I only knew about the way I was until I met my mother. She explained some things to me, and surprisingly, they made perfect sense. Fit right into my perception of the world, however strange and absurd they may seem. It fit _me._ Later, I was able to discern when I had shifted from female to male or vice versa. It was very disorienting - sometimes it took ages, sometimes it happened in a split second. I could usually tell when a change was coming on, though, when I started getting these... itching sensations over my arms, my legs, my face. Sometimes they were worse than other times, sometimes I could barely sense them. But they were always there, like a neverending, throbbing headache.”

She kicked the wood paneling of the porch. “This isn’t making any sense, is it?”

Magnus did still look a little lost, but another part of his expression was lit up with recognition, replacing his confusion. “No, no, keep going.”

Alex shrugged, her words turning blunt. “There isn’t much more to tell. I tried to be myself, my father did not respect that, so he kicked me out of his household. I survived alone for a while. Better to have no home at all and live on my own rules than to have a warm place to sleep every night but with no freedom of my own. Until I enlisted in the war and now” - she waved her arm around, taking in the entire convalescent home - “I am here.”

“So what about now?” Magnus asked. “Are you male, or...?”

Alex blinked, startled. It actually took her a few moments to answer, afraid that the tingles tracing their way up her spine and through her head meant she was changing right then and there. But no... these were different. Less of an itch and more of a warm pink-and-orange spark. “Female. She and her.”

Magnus didn’t speak for a while; Alex started to think that revealing herself as female as of that moment had finally made his tolerance snap. But when he glanced back at her he just looked flustered. He quickly looked away again, face obviously red even in the dim light. 

Finally, he blurted, “You’re strong - you better know that. To have been through all that you have... most people probably would not have been able to stand it.”

Alex’s shoulders slumped. He had only found a single key to unlock the heavily-bolted menagerie of lies and secrets she kept buried deep down under her feet. “I am a coward,” she spat. “You do not know me well enough to say that I am strong. You have no right.”

He was stunned into silence. When Alex stood up to leave, he hardly moved.

Now, instead of feeling like a weight had been lifted from her chest, she felt more burdened than ever. So maybe Magnus hadn’t pushed her away or shut off his emotions from her, but he’d been almost too understanding for her to trust. It was not that she doubted his acceptance - it was that it had come so easily. He was too kind for his own good, and that was what she both loved and despised about him. She was leading him astray with her damned maudlin plea.

And of course, she was a fool. A fool for being so weak and self-pitying; a fool for shutting someone away, _yet again,_ because what had that gotten her last time? A load of heartbreak and regret. 

Still, she could not turn around and sit back down next to Magnus and tell him whatever she wanted to say - though she didn’t really understand what she wanted to say to him in the first place.

Because she would never learn.

 

She did not dream peacefully that night. (Surprise, surprise.) Later, she didn’t remember much, except for snippets and flashes. There was a cavern, and black roiling waves confined under glimmering silver nets. It reminded her of the nightmare she’d had the first night she arrived at the convalescent home, only with less blood.

There were two people standing in the shadows of the cavern, one thin with disheveled hair, the other with a stocky build and a scarf covering their hair.

Oh, she’d recognize those silhouettes anywhere.

They stood looking away from each other, back to back. Samirah stared at the ceiling of the cavern as if she could see right through the granite and obsidian into the sky that she longed to travel and explore. Her head was wreathed in a mess of reds and purples, as always a ceaseless confusion. 

Magnus was barely a corporeal form, more of a shadow than a person. Whenever Alex tried to look him straight on, he flickered and began to dissolve. Bright white bandages speckled with red were wrapped tightly around his wrists and hands, almost like shackles.

Then, in the blink of an eye, Samirah fell to her knees, and Magnus began to fade - just another of the cavern’s shadows. All that was left of him was the blood-spattered bandages crumpled on the floor. 

And even as her vision blurred and swam, and as she stumbled toward the shadows of her friends, and as the ground rose up to meet her, as the rational side of her brain chided her for being so affected - this was only a dream, after all, only a dream - Alex screamed long and loud, letting all the confusion and frustration and pain and anger out in one self-indulgent moment. 

If this was the price of her cowardice, then she figured it was only fitting.


	10. Magnus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahahahah I can never keep up angst for long bc I'm a big softie, oops. Plus, I was listening to "Little Bird" by Ed Sheeran, so the beginning of the chapter fitted itself to match....

Alex Fierro had always been somewhat of an enigma to Magnus, and this new revelation did not exactly shed light on the soldier’s shadowy, faraway silhouette. 

After Alex had simply abandoned him on the porch after dropping that bombshell, he’d attempted to follow him - _her,_ he chided himself. It was going to take a while to get used to that. 

However, when he’d finally regained the sense to get up and walk into the convalescent home, he’d found Alex curled up under her thin sheets fast asleep. She kept muttering in her sleep and fidgeting, but Magnus was too much of a coward to stay and sit next to her.

T.J. peered at Magnus as he backed away from Alex. “What happened? He just charged in here and collapsed on the bed. I could almost see the storm cloud hovering around his head.”

Magnus resisted the urge to correct him with a curt “she and her.” But he knew that it wasn’t his place to tell anyone else. So he simply shrugged and turned away, busying himself with grabbing a basket of dirty bandages and making his way across the room with his head down.

His mind drifted back to Alex - no surprise there. He knew that at best, society would react with confusion if she were to flaunt who she was, and at worst, they would tear her apart whilst laughing the whole time.

But knowing Alex, she would probably jump right back up with a witty retort already on her tongue. 

Magnus was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t realize he’d been staring at the basket of soiled bandages for a few minutes now, standing stock-still. He dumped the contents of the basket into a larger bin, for someone to take out and burn later. But staring at the pile, which was already quite high, he figured he could just do it himself. He snatched up the basket and carried it out to the backyard, where he quickly made a small fire.

As he watched the contents burn, he caught sight of something in the dim light. Alex’s crutch; she’d left it by the porch in her hurry to get inside.

He sighed and picked it up. It was crudely made by one of the surgeons, with a few splinters covering the wood. Magnus absently plucked them out. 

He thought about Alex’s words: _Specifically, the fact that I wasn’t always a boy. Sometimes - most of the time, actually - I felt feminine._ It wasn’t particularly difficult for him to wrap his head around her words - in fact, he had met a few people that felt similarly in the years after his mother’s death when he was living on the streets of Boston. Those people had formed a small community full of other outcasts or folk just trying to understand a part of themselves. Magnus had been a part of that secret community. That Alex still felt so alone made him want to wrap the soldier up in a fierce hug - regardless of how she would bite and scratch. 

Well, in all honesty, he would probably burst into embarrassed flames before Alex could deliver her own fatal blow. 

It made perfect sense that Alex couldn’t stay one sex her entire life. She was constantly changing, exploring, trying. Nothing about Alex Fierro was fixed; Magnus had known that for a while. 

Well, he wasn’t going to allow her to sulk any longer. The fire was dying, and the smell of dried blood and cerate was masked by the thin veil of smoke rising into the air. He picked up the empty basket and the crutch and went back inside, instantly missing the smell of wood and the fresh night. 

He made his way through the door, past a few nurses lingering in the entrance hall, and tried to stall as long as he could until a nurse politely but firmly told him to get out of the way. Magnus tripped forward in a decidedly ungraceful manner. He found his way towards the end of the wide room, where Alex’s cot was shoved into the corner, cloaked in shadows. 

Alex was still stubbornly curled up under the thin wool covers. Contrary to her fitful sleep an hour ago, now she lay as still and silent as a dead person. Magnus almost wanted to check her pulse to see if she was still breathing....

He didn’t even bother to sit in his usual seat next to Alex’s cot, simply slumped down onto his knees by her bed. The floor’s cold, hard wood drove into his knees, but he welcomed the discomfort. He stared at Alex’s back turned away from him. Her hair lay flat on one side of her head and stuck up at every angle imaginable on the other. The worn bandage still covering her left eye had taken on a dull color of white, and Magnus figured it was about time to change it. Or even just be rid of it for good. At this point, it couldn’t get infected, and it could only heal on its own now. 

As he was thinking, Alex finally stirred. But she only flipped onto her other side and kept sleeping quietly. He tried not to stare, remembering that it was a bad habit of his - especially around Alex Fierro, dammit.

Alex kept twitching in her sleep. Her hands reached up to bunch a fistful of her shirt, and moisture beaded in the corners of her eyes. Needless to say, Magnus panicked. He’d never seen the soldier show any signs of vulnerability, and tonight alone he’d witnessed Alex spill her history to him, storm away in a cloud of confusion and pain, and now she was _crying?_ This wasn’t the Alex he knew. Or at least, not the Alex she ever dared to reveal.

Magnus did the first thing he thought of: he reached out and brushed a single tear away. And was it his imagination, or did Alex’s lips curl into a faint smile? Either way, she stilled once again, so Magnus kept his hand there, resting softly on her cheek, not knowing what to do anymore. This was probably the worst mistake he’d ever made, and that was saying something. He had work to do; the nurses would wonder what he was doing. Alex would wake up and land a blow to him that would certainly render him unconscious for days on end - 

Alex’s hands slowly unclenched from their death grip on her shirt. One hand found Magnus’s own still resting on her cheek and laced their fingers together. 

All right, maybe he could live with this.

To distract himself from getting too flustered, he started talking. About small things, like the weather, or how the trees were finally shaking off their thin blankets of snow and outstretching their arms to welcome the spring. The growing season was coming in late this year, whereas, in Boston, this could have been considered early.

Somehow, his one-sided conversation turned to his years of living on the streets of Boston. Alex had told him that she’d lived homeless before she drafted into the war, so they had that in common, at least. She wouldn’t hear him talking anyway, so he wouldn’t have to worry about the aftereffects of spilling his heart and history out to Alex Fierro.

“My mother died when I was fourteen. I still have no clue as to the cause of her death. Because I just ran. She told me to, so I ran as fast as I possibly could. Didn’t look back until I heard the windows shattering and the room bursting into flames. That was how I became a vagrant in Boston. I - I guess you can tell that already by the accent, though.” He smiled sheepishly.

Magnus stared at their hands interlocked, lying on the cot by Alex’s head. His own dirty, pale fingers and her freckled, slender ones. He focused on that and continued speaking in a whisper.

“I was weak. I was a coward. I was selfish. I still am. That’s the reason I am still trapped in my uncle’s mansion tending to the dying. Because I wasn’t strong enough to offer myself up to the death and glory of war. When Randolph finally found me in Boston, the war had already begun, and Lincoln was looking for men to enlist. My uncle bid to pay the Union for the weight of a uniform and a rifle to be lifted from my back. I took him up on his offer. So here I am. Blood on my hands, but at least it is not my fault.”

Alex hardly stirred, save for her eyelashes, which fluttered as if only disturbed by a breeze. Magnus’s words drifted from tangible sentences to singular words murmured into the shadows, where they quickly evaporated before he could discern what they read. He had the impression that he was repeating the same few words over and over, but he could not tell.

 

He didn’t realize when he fell asleep, but he woke hours later with sunlight just beginning to filter through the windows and nurses already going about their usual duties. Magnus lifted his head lazily, vaguely realizing that he was still lying by Alex’s cot quite unceremoniously. He felt numb. 

When he looked over at the soldier, she was staring at him, her face blank with confusion. But as soon as Magnus met her gaze, many emotions passed over her face in the space between a breath. He eye took on a gleam of mischievousness, but it was soon replaced with a warm and innocent delight until finally landing on pure, utter vexation.

Magnus followed her gaze to where it landed on their fingers still laced together. He was suddenly aware of how close they were; he could make out the traces of amber in her eye, and the strands of hair clinging to her temple that were slightly greasy from lack of wash. Her breath was stale and smelled a bit like strawberries - which was strange, since strawberries were hard to come by these days.

Alex seemed to finally snap out of her muddled morning thoughts. She snatched her hand away and retreated behind a mask of indifference. It was frightening how easily she could call up that cold, hard facade, and how genuine it appeared. “What do you want?” was her affectionate way of greeting.

He figured it would not be a good idea to bring up last night just yet. “Calm down. I am just going to see how your wounds are healing.”

She relaxed a fraction. In time, she allowed him to take a look at the wound around her left eye. Magnus took his time in unwrapping the dressings, finding that his hands were stalling at the soft strands of Alex’s hair that would occasionally brush at his fingertips and wrists.

Alex, on the other hand, drummed her fingers on her leg and hummed impatiently. Finally, she snapped, “When will you be done?”

Magnus startled and tore off the rest of the bandage. A part of it had stuck to Alex’s skin, and she let out a little cry. Magnus flinched. “Sorry for that...”

“Damn right,” she said through gritted teeth, covering her eye with her hand.

Magnus didn’t move towards her again for another minute. They just sat there, him with his hands in his lap, twisting the soiled bandages around his wrists with no idea as to what to do, and Alex with her one eye filled to the brim with half-hearted fury and her hand cupping her injured eye; and Magnus wondered if this was simply what they would be for the rest of the time she would spend in his convalescent home. And then she would leave to who knew where, having been discharged from the war. And they would never fix this.

He was never one to simply accept things as they were determined to be.

Magnus tore the bandages off his wrists (he’d wrapped them into a complicated pattern of bracelets without his own knowledge). “Come,” he said, gently but firmly pushing aside Alex’s hand.

The swelling in her eye had gone down weeks before, but a few small, deep scars still speckled the areas from her eyebrow down to her cheekbone. Magnus was pleased to see that the infection had been successfully chased away. (How, he had no idea. The wound had been a nightmare.)

Alex winced when she tried to open her eye. Nevertheless, she was able to peek through it for a minute.

Magnus ran his thumb softly over the tender skin, determining that it was healed enough that it wouldn’t need constant dressing anymore. 

“You might not be able to see very well through it,” he murmured absently.

“Things are blurry,” she agreed, “and there are a few black spots dancing around my vision.”

She attempted to look to the left side of her vision, but she hissed and clutched her eye again. “Well, I suppose moving my eye in that direction is out of the question as well,” she growled.

“So...” Magnus began fiddling with the bandages again before he sternly forced himself to stop. “Are we simply not going to talk about what you told me?”

Alex shook her head curtly. “There is nothing to talk about.”

“Yes, there is! We have to talk about how you’re _not_ alone in the world, despite how much you think you are, and how you drive me absolutely insane! You are not this mythical being that no one can understand; you are a human being, and that also means that you have emotions. So stop hiding behind that fearless mask and... accept that everyone is struggling! You are _not_ completely alone. Some people might even be going through similar circumstances as you are. Hell, I used to know a few people like you, so I am _certain_ there are people in similar circumstances.”

Alex did not respond for a few moments. She simply stared, stunned into silence. Magnus didn’t think that Alex Fierro could ever be rendered speechless.

Finally, she murmured, “There are other people like me? How?”

He thought back to his times living homeless in Boston, and the people he’d met. “Well... there was this one person who said that they could not really understand the concept of man or woman, so they eventually realized that they were simply neither. And I met someone who felt similarly to you, who fluctuated between male, female, or oftentimes somewhere in between. We were good friends.”

He didn’t hear Alex speak for a long time. Eventually, he glanced up to find that she was staring intently at her hands in her lap. Her eyes shone, and a sad, lopsided smile graced her lips.

“I have never met anyone like me before. I’ve only ever told a few people who I was. Those people either shut me away, or they just threw me out. Only one person ever did try to understand it.”

Her tone said that she wasn’t ready to talk about that person.

As had been revealed many times before, Magnus was useless in situations that involved Alex Fierro and complex emotions. Or just situations that involved Alex Fierro in general. He wondered if he would ever be able to act normally around her.

Alex was absently scratching at her arms, and Magnus remembered how she’d said that that itching sensation was always present, an unwelcome index of her flexibility. 

“What?” she asked. She looked down at her hands, seemed to realize what she was doing, and forced herself to stop. She glared at him. “What?” she repeated, this time more forcefully.

He coughed. “Nothing.” 

Yes, he was never going to be able to act normally around Alex Fierro.

“You are so strange,” she said, leaning back in her cot and closing her eyes. 

“You’re one to talk,” he countered, grinning.

Well, what was normal worth, compared to what this was?

 

_“What do you plan on doing after the war?”_

_“Assuming that I survive?"_

__

_“Let’s not go down that path. And another thing, you have been discharged.”_

Alex had laughed. _“Like that will stop me. I’ll force them to let me back in. Just thinking about sitting idle for the rest of the war makes me feel helpless and dumb.”_

__

_“I don’t doubt that. But you haven’t answered my question.”_

__

_“Adamant, aren’t you? Alright, this is the truth.”_ Alex stared assertively at him, eye smoldering with something uncontrollable. _“I have absolutely no idea. I suppose every man knows precisely what he wants: to go home to his children, or his sweetheart, or his picturesque household. Well, I don't have any of those things. I don’t think I ever did. So all I have is right here, right now. Perhaps one day, I’ll find what everyone else has, but I don’t count on it, nor do I particularly desire it.”_

__

_“You don’t like the idea of having someone special to return to, a soft place to land?”_

__

_“I don’t allow myself to mull over flights of fancy. It drains you, weighs you down like molasses.”_

__

_“But just... for a moment, imagine it. What would you do if you had a home like the ones your fellow soldiers reminisce over?”_

Alex laughed again, this time slightly less derisive. _“Oh, Magnus. If that were the case then I suppose I wouldn’t have much of a choice, would I? Having someone you care about is its own kind of cage.”_

That had been the spark of their friendship.


	11. Alex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me an absurdly long amount of time to write the last scene and the dialogue is still just decent, ehehehe
> 
> Well, I kinda see this as the end of... the first act, or whatever?? Idk, but I _can_ promise that chapters will probably be a lot less disorganized and a lot less fluffy....

Ten months. Alex and T.J. had been living in this convalescent home for almost a year. During that time, Alex’s wounds had healed a decent amount - she could open her left eye, she could walk without collapsing from the pain. She had even gotten used to the day-by-day sounds of the place: the banter of nurses, the complaining and arguing among the soldiers - and yes, even the shouts and whimpers of pain that could be heard from other rooms of the mansion when a limb would have to be sawed off if it got too infected, or when any other number of dastardly ordeals had to be performed.

Alex had also sat by and heard from second- or thirdhand accounts the ghastly tales of the battles that had erupted around Virginia and other places near - Antietam, Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville; each battle costly in its own way. 

But most infuriatingly, she had grown fond of the nurses and soldiers that she saw on an almost daily basis. Jack, who, despite his annoying tendencies, had always managed to lift her spirits. Louise, with her stubborn will and firm but motherly affinities. And even the soldiers that more often than not got on her nerves with their headstrong personalities, but with whom she could also trade stories and jokes (which were oftentimes inappropriate among most company). And of course, Magnus-goddamn-Chase, whom she didn’t think she could describe seriously without abandoning all her composure, and her pride along with it. It all gave her a heady sort of feeling, warm and full of surprises.

But there was one thought that instantly sobered her up. Alex had been stealing away the days and the weeks for seven months, and it was past due time to give them back. 

She thought about Loki; about what her mother had said so many weeks ago: _I shall be staying around here for a while, I think. It’s quite picturesque._ Alex didn’t believe that Loki was staying here simply for the quaint setting for one second. She was keeping track of Alex, making sure that she stayed in line. And though Loki could do that from anywhere, being near her child made it much easier, not to mention it allowed for her hold on Alex to be as effortless as controlling an inanimate puppet.

Alex could not keep waiting forever. She had to get back up and fighting again, or she would surely go mad. An idea started forming in her mind, burning red and hazy.

She scanned the room until she found a familiar head of sunshine-blonde hair. Magnus was bent over another soldier, talking to him in hushed tones. Every person around the vicinity seemed to be preoccupied with something or other. Perfect.

Alex’s feet hit the wood floor with little more than a whisper. She grabbed the hunting knife that she’d snuck under her bed the first day she got here (just in case), and successfully slipped away from the noise and bustle of the main room where the wounded and healing soldiers were staying.

She was wearing little more than a loose, threadbare shirt and pants that weren’t in much better condition. She was barefoot but ready to either stand her ground or flee if need be. Not that she planned on fleeing any longer. 

She went out to the back porch, lingering at the spot where she had confessed to Magnus. But she shook her head and continued on. She could not allow herself to become sentimental; when had that even happened?

The grass was wet and spongy underneath Alex’s feet. Dirt clung to her ankles and heels. Despite the pain that still stabbed through her side on occasion, the backwoods seemed to turn it into a throbbing memory.

She walked far enough that the mansion was obscured by the various hemlock and pine trees littering the woods. Only then did she stop and allow herself to think about what she was doing. Standing in a copse of trees to summon Loki? Assuming that her mother would deign to come, what would she say to her? Alex wasn’t in any mood to plead for another place in a regiment of the Union Army, and in no position to bargain either. 

She didn’t have to figure out a way to talk to Loki, because when she turned around she found her mother perched on a fallen tree branch. She wore a ball gown of red velvet and black lace, boasting of both opulence and vicious power. She sat as still as if she were carved from glass.

Loki glanced up, her eyebrows arched in an approximation of surprise. “Oh, my dear, what in the world do you think you’re doing here?”

Alex took a deep breath. She would not allow herself to lose sight of her goal as she did so many times. 

“I suppose you can call checkmate now,” she said evenly. “I have to go back.”

Loki’s face took on an expression of mild interest. “Go back to the war? I do not think I’ve ever heard that one before, and I have heard many strange things before.”

“I’m not asking for your opinion on this,” said Alex. “I need you to distort their perception. As if I were always in one regiment you place me in.”

Loki canted her head. “And here I thought you were too cowardly to even enlist once. But you haven’t told me what I might gain from this.”

“I might die. Would that be payment enough?”

Loki seemed to be seriously considering it until she shook her head. “No, you still might have some worth to me. Don’t be selling yourself short, dear.”

Alex stood stock-still in front of her mother, glaring. She hardly breathed. In response, Loki stared at her with the same intensity. Her hair burned the color of the sunrise; her eyes flickered like a wildfire setting the underbrush ablaze.

But eventually, in response, Loki sighed and stood. Her ball gown swished around her body, catching the light and bottling it up to create a sort of halo of shadows around her. With her next step, though, the dress melted away, replaced by a suit of the same colors. Loki’s shoulders broadened; her hair turned from astonishing red to a shifting mix of pale colors akin to the autumn leaves.

Alex felt like her stomach was writhing, twisting, reaching up to strangle her. She refused to drop to her knees, but she stumbled, and almost fell into a tree. _Dammit._ No matter how many times this happened, she would always despise the feeling that she was drowning, suffocating under waves stained black and red. 

The pain and confusion seemed to last for eternity, but it eventually subsided. The waves ebbed away from Alex’s vision.

“Why must you always make it as dreadful as possible?” Alex growled, regaining his balance. “I. Wasn’t. Ready.” 

“Do you think I care about whether it makes you comfortable or not?” Loki said irritably. “Stop complaining. Chin up, that’s right. Don’t drag your feet.”

 _Don’t drag your feet._ It had always been something Alex’s stepmother had said, usually right before they entered the ballroom for some social gathering or another. He could imagine the scene as clear as if he were standing there witnessing it. His stepmother’s voice simpering and disapproving, ringing in his ears. She would tap his chin, straighten his dress shirt, then the steward would pull open the broad wooden doors, revealing a room full of light and jewels and dread thick enough to blot it all out. 

Alex forced himself to stand up straight, to stare Loki right in the eyes. He looked smug, but then again, he always did.

It had been the last curse Loki had bestowed on his child. To introduce Alex to this volatile trait and let her understand it and even begin to treasure it... and then tear it away and take it as his own. When Loki changed, Alex changed. A reminder that Alex was never meant to be his own person, that every bit of himself would always belong to someone else.

It had almost been worse than losing Samirah to delusions and fury.

“Well, all right,” Loki continued, pulling Alex back to the present, “I shall concede. Though remember: one day you _will_ have to repay me.”

He looked Alex up and down, one eyebrow arched. “But you are in no shape to join the war again just yet.”

Alex crossed his arms. He tried not to betray the thought that he might not mind staying in the mansion for a few more weeks so much.

“Perfect,” he said, brushing the idea aside. Perhaps he really would die and he would not have to pay his debt to Loki in the end. But knowing the trickster, he probably wouldn’t allow that to happen. Alex couldn’t decide if that would be a comfort or an enormous fear looming over the horizon.

“I’ll give you seven days, precisely.”

When he blinked next, Loki was gone. The only sign that he’d ever been there was a coil of smoke unfurling from the grass where he’d been standing. 

Alex watched the curl of smoke until it dissipated into the sky. He was stalling, and he knew it. But he felt like he needed a minute to process the future.

He had gotten what he wanted. In a way. At least, he would not have to endure any more endless days spent staring at a wall or wandering the mansion, trying to get used to walking again. He would have the weight of a rifle in his hands and the burning sun on his back. But now that he had this plan set, he wondered which fate would be worse.

A phrase a few of the soldiers used to chant rose to Alex’s mind: _Navy blue, stormy gray, together what do they create? Red, red, bright as sin._

He forced himself to move forward. One step at a time, that was how it was done. Forget the disorientation and the shame, forget the pain that was returning in his shoulder and side, forget everything except the rustle of the grass under his feet as he made his way back to the mansion.

As soon as he emerged from the trees, though, all of his thoughts were driven away by the concerned/furious gray-eyed glare of Magnus Chase.

He had never really thought of Magnus as frightening - Alex always thought he had more of a “lost puppy” look to him - but now he was certainly going to give those rebels with their bayonets and blood-stained cheeks on the battlefield a run for their money. 

Alex attempted an expression of nonchalance as he strolled up to the porch.

“I would grab you by the arm and drag you back here if I weren’t worried about agitating your wound,” Magnus said as a way of greeting. “Where were you?”

“That’s not important. I’m all right, aren’t I?” Alex raised his arms and spun around. 

Magnus squinted. “You seem different now...”

Alex was thrown off guard. Not even Samirah had ever been perceptive enough to notice the changes. 

Or perhaps he just had dirt on his face or something. He resisted the urge to rub his hand across his cheek and settled for telling Magnus. “You can refer to me as he and him now.”

Of course, he couldn’t mention that simply being male right now made him feel anxious. He’d have been quite all right with staying female for a little while longer but no, Loki had to be Loki. Still, the discomfort of changing against his will wasn’t usually this bad.

Magnus didn’t look as surprised as Alex expected him to; which he appreciated more than he dared to admit. Magnus simply raised his eyebrows and nodded.

“Don’t think that means you can just leave on your own accord while you’re still” - he paused, peering at Alex - “well, not in a fragile state, you’ve never been like that, but at least still wounded.”

“I appreciate the concern,” Alex said, canting his head. “But it wasn’t needed.”

He flashed his brightest smile at Magnus as he passed - and yes, it was a dirty trick, but it worked. Magnus forgot to ask Alex what he’d been doing in the woods, and he was temporarily left a stammering, blushing mess.

T.J. gave Alex a curious glance as he walked in, but Alex ignored it. Instead, he sat at the edge of his cot and stared at the ceiling. It was elegantly designed if a bit overdone, and now chipping and dusty. Paintings of Norse deities and heroes were depicted in all their bloody, thunderous glory. Alex focused on that.

He had a week. When that time was up, he figured he would have to scrounge up the scraps from his life from ten months ago - his uniform and his courage, namely - and pray that he didn’t end up in a terrible regiment. Which made him realize that he had no idea how this transfer was going to work. Was Loki simply going to snap his fingers and drop him into an arbitrarily-chosen regiment? That didn’t sit right with Alex.

Then it hit him. Obviously, Loki wouldn’t make it so straightforward. There was going to be some sort of catch.

He caught sight of Magnus making his way down the hall. All traces of his bashfulness from earlier were gone, replaced by a subtle determination. But as Alex watched him approach (he allowed a lazy grin to spread across his face, hoping that would earn him some points), Magnus was pulled aside by a frantic-looking nurse. As he was being dragged away, he shot a glare Alex’s way, as if to say _I’m still not done with the interrogation so don’t think that you have gotten away this time._ Alex just gave him a self-indulgent smile. He dropped it as soon as Magnus disappeared into another room.

A pleading voice at the back of Alex’s mind told him that a week was too short; seven days to... to do what? He didn’t really know. He just knew that it was too soon, though it also could not come fast enough.

 

Magnus did indeed attempt to interrogate Alex. “Attempt” because Alex managed to weasel his way out of the more difficult questions by turning them on their heads, countering them with outrageous demands of his own. With an adorable little huff, Magnus eventually gave up and went back to tending to a patient with a fever. 

Alex just wished he could tell him that their time was waning. And it was almost all he could think of, now that the road was paved and he was meant to walk it.

What do you do when you know that you might have only a few scarce days left with someone in your life? What do you do with that time? Do you pretend as if everything is normal and continue with your regular tasks and banter? Do you try to make the most out of every last second, clinging to those final days like a dying man? Do you let every last word that has been building up in the back of your throat for so long spill out with no consequences or concerns? The possibilities always seem endless, yet so limited at the same time.

Alex had started wandering the mansion to pass the time, and also to get used to walking again. Though he was not allowed past the second floor for some reason, he soon discovered that Magnus’s uncle did indeed have a strange obsession with the Norse - he found many tapestries, paintings, and old relics hidden behind glass panes and heavy velvet drapes. The entire place reminded Alex of a long-abandoned museum. Or a house in mourning.

Two days after meeting Loki, he ran into Jack, of all people. He hadn’t even seen the nurse in weeks, and truth be told, his absence hadn’t seemed very significant. Except that now the man was actually here, Alex could recall all the days where he would have been a sight for sore eyes.

Alex had been studying a large tapestry hung up on the wall outside of what probably used to be the dining room before the mansion was turning into a home for injured soldiers. It depicted a woman hovering in the air with a spear clutched in one hand and a shield in the other. Alex couldn’t help but think of Samirah. 

“She’s a Valkyrie,” a voice said from behind Alex. He spun around to find Jack standing in the doorway, hands in his pockets, golden hair tied into a braid. 

Jack stepped toward the tapestry and peered at it. “The Valkyries used to be my idols. They all seemed so powerful and almighty, see?” He sighed wistfully. “I wanted to be one.”

“Weren’t they a group of all-female warriors?” Alex asked.

Jack frowned as if he’d never thought of that technicality. “As if that would have stopped me.”

They stared at the tapestry in silence a moment longer, but that eventually seemed too much for Jack. “So, I was with a few other nurses doing fieldwork.”

A twinge of guilt passed through Alex’s chest; he had barely thought of what Jack might have been up to these past weeks. Magnus had not even mentioned it. “You went on the battlefields?”

He nodded. “It was... harsh. I don’t think it’s quite for me. I kept slipping up; my hands were constantly shaking and it was _so loud._ I think I’ll be staying here from now on.” He smiled crookedly. “Call me a coward all you want.”

“No, not at all.” Alex shot one last look at the Valkyrie, with her winged helmet and confident stance, before turning on his heel towards the stairs. “It only means that you are still sane.”

He did not think that the same could be said for himself, though.

 

Alex tried not to think about anyone else those next few days. Tried not to think about the people that had shown him kindnesses and courtesies. It wasn’t worth the additional muddled, torn thoughts.

On the sixth day, Alex shifted from male to female and back again twice. Alex’s body eventually settled on feminine, to which she could only let out a muffled sigh of relief. Damned Loki, pulling and tangling the puppet strings again. 

The seventh and last day dawned with a clear sign of foreboding. Alex grabbed the navy blue jacket that still hung draped across her cot’s frame and snuck away to put it on. She found a pair of fitting shoes this time, after a bit of scrounging. She also brought her hunting knife and tucked it into its sheath.

She surveyed the room as she walked to the door that led to the back porch. Cots were lined up on both sides of the room, dispersed unevenly, along with simple furniture and the occasional photograph hung up on the wall. But otherwise, the whole place was rather bare-bones, as if the room ought to be filled with flamboyant art and ornamentations. It had perhaps been a sitting room in its life before the war.

“Where are you going with that?”

Alex prided herself in not jumping two feet in the air at Magnus’s voice behind her.

She tried to inconspicuously stuff the navy blue jacket behind her back. “Ah - that’s none of your concern,” she replied.

Magnus cursed. “I knew it. I’ve known it for a while. You’re leaving, aren’t you?”

He said it so bluntly that Alex had to stop herself from flinching. She could already tell that he wasn’t going to try to dissuade her. He only sounded resigned.

“I’m not going to apologize,” said Alex stubbornly. She felt like she was trying to convince herself.

“I wasn’t waiting for you to. Just... think about it for a minute. Why go back out there? Why risk your life again?”

“Because I’m not a coward,” Alex mumbled. 

Magnus didn’t seem to know what to make of this. He led her towards the back porch, where they had spent many hours discussing the war, the soldiers, their idyllic futures.

He sat down on the porch. Alex didn’t miss how he refused to look at her. She sat down next to him, her uniform tucked over her arms.

“I have to do this,” Alex said quietly. “Not just for my country, but for myself. I told you once that I couldn’t just sit by for the rest of the war without feeling useless. That still stands true - even more so now, I think. And I can’t really explain everything, not yet, but you’re just going to have to trust me.”

She flinched at adding that “not yet.” If she could, she would keep the Loki part of her past a secret forever. But things rarely worked out so well. 

But Magnus said anyway, “I trust you.”

Alex was so taken aback that she couldn’t respond. She snuck a glance at Magnus from the corner of her eye and found him staring intently at the sun-dappled ground. His hands were clasped together, and a sad smile flitted across his lips.

In that space between moments, Alex’s mind all but stopped. All she knew was that she wanted to keep that self-conscious quirk of his lips there. She leaned forward and planted a chaste kiss on the corner of his mouth before she knew what she was doing.

That successfully caught Magnus’s attention. His head shot up. He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. Alex couldn’t fairly say that she didn’t feel the same way. 

She let out a huff of exasperation and planted her hands on either side of Magnus’s face. He still looked too stunned to do anything but stare. “I never planned this,” she said, somewhat annoyed at the gray butterflies that laughed at her as they fluttered in her stomach.

She kissed him - fully on the lips, this time. She savored every moment of it, drawing out the seconds from the world around them and cradling them close - from the trees lining the property, to the wet grass that gleamed under the sunlight, to the cold porch with its chipping white paint.

Eventually, Magnus began to kiss her back. He was clumsy and shy, but Alex tangled her hands in his hair to give him some clues. And even as brilliant, ecstatic colors were bursting behind Alex’s eyelids, her heart shattered in her chest - ripping up her lungs, cutting her throat, spilling blood that felt as real as the sensation of Magnus’s fingers curling into the ends of her hair. 

At some point Alex found that she had wrapped her arms around Magnus’s waist and buried her face in his chest, melting into his touch. He was murmuring something into her hair, but she couldn’t make out the words. Silent sobs wracked her body.

Alex slowly regained her senses, and with them, she soon realized that she would have much rather forgotten every responsibility and fear she had ever had. She could not stay here hidden and safe, nor could she even allow herself to admit that there was now something - _someone_ \- anchoring her to a spot drenched in sunlight, surrounded by pine trees on one side and a towering mansion on the other, tucked away in the scent of sunshine and dusty relics.

But she had known all that already. 

Which made it easier for her to pull away, shrug on the navy blue jacket that was still just a bit too large, and stand up.

“I would say something else right now,” she said softly, “but I told you that I wasn’t going to apologize.”

Magnus’s expression was pure sadness. It was etched across every plane of his face, evident in the way he slumped like a flower in the snow. “You owe me quite an explanation when you return,” he sighed. “And you _will_ return; you are not allowed to die on me anytime soon.”

She laughed, softly. “You too” was all she managed to say.

He seemed to be debating if he should say his next words. “And... you should know that no matter how long the war lasts, or whatever happens, I... I’ll still be here.” 

Alex turned away briefly, feeling her chest swell with burning coals. No one ever stayed.

He didn’t even seem to realize the weight of his words. “Let me get you a pack of provisions, at least?”

She couldn’t force herself to say no. So he rushed back into the mansion and returned a couple minutes later with a leather satchel in his hands, weighted down with one other pair of clothes and whatever food he could have scrounged up from their stockpiles.

He handed it to her and said, “I’ll walk you to the main road.”

She tried to hide the eagerness with which she jumped to walk by his side. 

The main road was only a short ten-minute walk away, and for that Alex was simultaneously grateful and disappointed. She stayed close to the bushes, away from Magnus. She kept her head high, but there was a twinge of pain that was crawling its way up through her chest that she blamed on the wound in her side.

The silence between them wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it wasn’t completely awkward either. In fact, their silence seemed to speak more volumes than any excuse that Alex could have stumbled through or any protest Magnus could have thrown at her.

The main road could barely be called that. It was winding and dusted with so much dirt that all of one’s senses would be clogged up anytime a carriage or brigade of soldiers marched on by.

Magnus stopped abruptly at the edge once they reached it and turned to Alex with some difficulty.

“Where do you plan on going from here?” he asked.

Alex tipped her head back and stared at the sky, stuffing her hands in her pockets. The breeze toying with her hair and the warmth of her jacket kept her grounded. “I don’t really have it all planned out in my head, really. But I will figure something out. I always do.” She flashed her most confident smile.

Magnus was staring at her, appearing lost in thought. But when he spoke again, all he said was: “You have different colored eyes.”

Alex was so taken aback that she momentarily forgot what colors her eyes were. Wait. _Ah._ Brown and pale amber. She wanted to slap herself.

She laughed softly and shook her head, an action she had learned to perfect after months that very clearly meant _Dammit, Magnus._ He shrugged somewhat bashfully, somewhat smugly.

A thought struck her suddenly, and she voiced it before she could think better of it. “Do you ever receive letters?”

He scoffed, which was all the answer she needed.

“Well, that’ll change, don’t you worry.”

Only one genuine smile lit up his face that day, and it was a sweeter reward than any lie Loki could have spun.

_Well, I suppose you could have chosen worse._

Speak of the devil. Alex almost threw her satchel at the ghostly apparition of Loki lurking behind Magnus. Her feet hovered a few inches off the ground. Her smile was pure heaven’s light, but her emerald eyes glinted with something devilish. 

Alex’s voice felt trapped, but this wasn’t Loki’s doing. The trickster was just... watching. And studying every inch of Magnus’s face with a look that was utterly ravenous. Like she could not wait to twist his mind into something wild and unrecognizable. The way she’d done with Samirah.

And it was then that Alex realized she should never have shown any interest in Magnus Chase.

But Loki just kept grinning, _leering,_ until she turned around, letting her skirts swish around her alluringly, and dissolved into golden mist. Leaving Alex with a sense of dread thicker than any panic she would feel during a battle.

Magnus looked over his shoulder, probably wondering what Alex was staring at that had made her go so pale. Finding nothing, he stared at her in bemusement.

Alex choked back a sob. There was no point in holding back now, she thought, since Loki already knew how she cherished this gray-eyed, golden-hearted boy. So she entwined their fingers and pressed her forehead against his. He looked taken aback by this; Alex was not one for dramatic gestures.

“If you say goodbye right now I will punch the daylights out of you,” she said. 

“See you someday” was his rapid-fire response, as if it had jumped out of his mouth without his volition.

She smirked. “That’s more like it.”

Alex pulled away as fast as she had rushed to Magnus’s side. She clung to the satchel’s strap across her chest, watching him with an expression as vulnerable as she could allow. Then, before she could change her mind, she turned around and raced down the road. She didn’t look back, but somehow she knew Magnus was still standing there in the middle of the road. 

It might have been just her imagination, but Alex felt as if someone was watching from above, grinning as they snuffed out a candle faster than she had time to relight it.


	12. Alex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry  
> 1) for this entire chapter dedicated to Alex's tragic anime backstory and  
> 2) for the terrible writing of said tragic backstory. This took longer than anticipated.

Alex was crying again.

All the pent-up frustration and anger of so many years had taken form into red-hot tears. Alex cursed each one on their way down.

Not that she feared being called weak or useless. Her father was long gone, disappeared in a storm of rage and incoherent threats. It was just Alex, some broken pottery shards, and a few of her things scattered on the side of this dusty road in front of her father’s mansion. Her legs couldn’t seem to work right now, blasted things.

Her bruised arms hurt. Her chest felt pinched from all the painful sobs. The cut on her cheek throbbed - a parting gift from the large blue ring on her father’s right hand.

She hated being incompetent, but she had nowhere to go, no one to run to, nothing to call her own. If her grandfather were still here perhaps...

The sun was setting, turning the honeysuckle crawling up the sides of the mansion gilded. 

Alex pulled her knees up to her chest and buried her face into the rose-soft pink fabric of the gown Loki had given her so long ago. Her father’s voice still rang in her ears, harsh and impossible to ignore. _Coward, useless, stupid..._ Words that physically stung. He always looked taller when he was angry.

 _I’ll show_ you _who’s useless!_

The sound of feet scuffling through the dusty street made Alex glance up. She saw a pair of green shoes sticking out of a black dress, and when her gaze traveled up she found a girl around Alex’s age. Her skin was a rich dark brown, and a green headscarf covered her hair. She had an umbrella propped on her shoulder for no reason Alex could discern, until she realized that it had begun to drizzle.

“Your name is Alex, correct?” she asked.

Alex prayed that the darkness obscured the puffiness of her eyes as she glared stubbornly up at the girl. Who was she and why should Alex trust her?

As if she’d read her mind, the girl held out her hand. “I am Samirah. Your half-sister.”

Alex stared, stunned, at the girl long enough for her to become uncomfortable. Eventually, though, she said in a small voice, “How did you find me?”

Samirah shuffled her feet. Alex still hadn’t taken her outstretched hand, so she let it drop awkwardly to her side. “Well, this is going to sound strange, but... I had a dream about you. Sitting here, now.”

Alex’s eyes widened. It sounded like this girl had clairvoyant dreams as well. And she only knew one person who could grant those. 

“Loki is your mother?”

“Ah... father. Unfortunately.” 

“And let me guess. Loki sent you here to fetch me.” Alex blinked the rain from her eyes. The ground was thoroughly soaked now, as was she. But she was too proud to go stand under the umbrella with Samirah.

The girl - Alex’s _half-sister_ \- wrinkled her nose. “I am not Loki’s little puppet. No, I came here of my own accord. My plans just so happen to align with my father’s on this matter.”

She didn’t seem happy with this idea. Alex wondered what made her so wary of Loki. She decided that she would allow a sliver of trust for this girl. After all, where else was she to go?

“I’m a girl right now, by the way,” Alex said, brushing past Samirah. “I’ll inform you when that fact changes.”

“A-all right,” Samirah said slowly. She didn’t seem to know what to think of this piece of information on her new half-sibling. Alex didn’t care. She was done caring.

 

This was why caring was a terrible, dangerous thing. It left you vulnerable, it left you sore, it made your heart bleed.

It made you feel invincible when you were still so painfully _mortal._

This was what Alex thought about as she kept walking down the same small road she’d started on hours ago. (She was certain she’d know when to change directions - Loki didn’t have time for her to get lost on her way to glorious death.) 

How wonderful these butterflies in her stomach were. She almost wished they would stay.

 

Samirah was almost too kind. She took Alex to her former home outside of Boston, where she’d lived before her mother died. Samirah herself lived nearby with her grandparents. She didn’t ask a lot of questions, she gave Alex a dress to wear (it was plain gray, but, well, you can’t have everything) when the confusion and discomfort became too overwhelming, and she visited every other day or whenever she had time.

Alex didn’t want to, but she grew to be fond of her half-sister. (It was still strange to think that she had family that was halfway decent.)

Alex ended up spilling everything a few weeks later, when Samirah pressed. Her father and step-family, Loki, the changes. She didn’t think her sister understood everything exactly, but she wasn’t repelled by Alex at least. 

In return, Samirah told her all about how she dreamed of flying. It was all she wanted t of her future, she said (besides getting married to her fiancé from childhood, Amir). 

Alex had sat back in her seat, humming. “But how?” she finally asked. 

Samirah blushed. “I haven’t figured that out yet. I do not think we have the knowledge to get humans in the air, and we might not for a very long time. So... it’s hopeless, I realize that.”

“Not necessarily.” Alex smirked. “Don’t you know you have a powerful immortal being for a parent?”

“I have never seen Loki fly before,” Samirah said, deadpan.

“Ah, but who knows what Loki can or cannot do?”

 

Loki had too much power, that was for sure. She fed off strife and trouble, so she was practically gorging herself in times like these. A nation divided against itself, how divine! Alex was sure that Loki could do anything to her and not suffer any consequences. Still, she’d kept her word. No one questioned Alex’s sudden presence in the 40th New York Infantry Regiment.

Marching was miserable. Marching in the rain even more so. With every mud-soaked step, Alex was increasingly certain that she would never want to look at another body of water again.

Just her luck that they were marching to the Potomac, which they were going to have to cross sooner or later. The river was swelling with black waves, knocking out any boats that dared to cross. 

Alex sighed and tugged her heavy uniform jacket over her head - not that it did any good; it had soaked through hours ago.

 

Alex stood outside in the pouring rain doing little more than mulling over everything that had happened in the past few months. She had never felt so... comfortable before. At peace with her current situation, if not with the world. It definitely wasn’t in a place she expected to be, with the mud squelching under her feet and her wet hair clinging to her face. Her dress clung to her body like a second skin. 

She closed her eyes and zoned in on the sound of the rain pattering against the porch. Comfortable was all well and good, but she had never quite been satisfied with that. There were only so many hours she could spend up to her elbows in clay, even if the piece she was currently working on required a great deal of effort and concentration. This one she was planning to dedicate to Samirah. A thank-you, however small.

Her eyes flew open at the sound of footsteps. No one came around this part of town; it was run-down and near vacant. She couldn’t make out the person’s features very well in the musky air, but Alex would recognize that confident gait anywhere. Loki had finally paid her a visit.

Before, Alex might have greeted her mother rather gratefully. But over the months Samirah had told her about the more... unpleasant aspects of Loki’s character. Now, Alex had always known that Loki was been a trickster. But she was only just realizing that it ran much deeper than getting a few laughs out. Samirah had told her of the times Loki had gone out of his way to ruin her life. He’d told her grandparents all about the complicated history the al-Abbases had with the Norse, shaken up their entire perception of the world for no apparent reason except that it had struck his fancy. And Samirah was beginning to question if the flames over slavery spreading throughout the North and South were being fed by Loki.

Either Alex was a favorite of Loki’s, or he needed her for something important. She shuddered at the thought. 

“What do you want?” Alex said, trying to keep her voice nonchalant. She stood and began to fight a losing battle to wring out the dampness of her skirt.

Loki stopped in front of Alex. Though he was mostly still in shadow, his eyes cut through the gloom like amber beams from a lighthouse. He bared his teeth in an approximation of a grin. “What, no warm welcoming for your mother?”

“I’ve been further enlightened to your character.” Alex shrugged.

“I see you’ve been listening to Samirah’s tales about me. That won’t do. If it’s just between the two of us, she’s a little biased. A war is bound to spark sooner or later in this country; I’m only opening their eyes to the possibility of sooner.”

“So you admit it,” Alex said. She didn’t phrase it as a question. “You’re behind all this.”

Loki laughed. “Oh, you are giving me too much credit - though I do appreciate it. But humans are fickle creatures. It does not take much to persuade them.

“Anyway, flattery won’t get you anywhere; I thought you would know that by now.” All the mirth in Loki’s expression dropped away. “I led Samirah to you so that maybe you could convince her to stop with her little rebellions. Yet it seems that my plan has backfired on me.”

He shot a glare Alex’s way, daring her to contradict him. Alex didn’t speak or move.

Loki tsked. “Where have your manners gone? You used to be so complacent and trusting.”

Before she could think of the consequences, Alex blurted, “Perhaps it is because I don’t need you anymore.”

Was it just Alex’s imagination, or had the darkness turned suffocating? And the rain suddenly felt like acid on her skin.

Loki’s eyes flared unnaturally bright. “I’ll allow that to slide this time. But, I’ll let you know, you will _always_ need me. To kill the snake, you must first cut off its head.”

Alex just glared at him without blinking for so long that her eyes started to water. Then his head snapped up at the sound of footsteps and a grin spread over his face.

“Well, I should be going now,” he said. “Think about what I’ve told you.” With that, he turned on his heel and in the next instant, he was gone.

When Alex looked up she found Samirah approaching her, a bounce to her step. Alex couldn’t help but think that her green headscarf bore a stunning resemblance to the scales of a snake’s head.

_No. He would not dare._

_Except he would._

Against her will, Alex found herself rushing towards Samirah and strangling her in a hug.

“Oh! Ah, hello. What’s wrong?”

Alex buried her face into Samirah’s shoulder long enough to be sure that the tears had been banished. Then she pulled away and turned back to the house. “Nothing. Sorry. Just...” She shook her head. “Nothing.”

Samirah shot her a befuddled expression but followed her sister inside. She wiped her hand down the front of her dress and looked over Alex’s half-drowned-kitten appearance. “Have you been standing out in the rain all day or something?”

 

Alex’s hands were sore from spending the past twenty minutes wringing out his uniform jacket. He knew from experience that the fabric stiffened when it dried, so better to squeeze out as much water as possible now. The air was still crisp from the rain, but the sun was now baking their troops. Alex’s boots were too thick to even feel the coolness of the mud he was trudging through. 

They’d been marching for the past four days to reach the Pennsylvania-Maryland border. They were hot on the heels of battle, Alex could sense it.

Alex almost felt guilty for the excitement that was buzzing through him at the prospect of fighting again. There was definitely something wrong with him, no doubt about that.

 

Was there something wrong with him? Alex couldn’t tell. His mind was always muddled and dull these days, like the murky water he used to clean his pottery tools. He poured that frustration into his current clay piece. He wasn’t quite sure what it was yet, but it seemed to be taking the form of a two-headed beast. 

Alex rubbed at an itch on his forehead - this only succeeded in getting wet clay on his face. As it was progressing, his bust was starting to look more and more like a house caving in.

Alex groaned and dropped his head onto the table. Lately, he couldn’t seem to make anything at all and it was driving him absolutely mad. And what else could he do around here besides explore the town and make sculptures and pots?

He hadn’t realized Samirah was watching him until she spoke up.

“I think you should meet Amir.”

Alex shot up so fast that he almost fell out of his chair. “Amir? As in, Amir your fiancé?”

Samirah smiled faintly. “He is the only Amir I know, so yes.”

Alex whooped. “In that case, of course. When?”

“Well, I still need a male family member to act as escort. So whenever that may be.”

Alex immediately started washing off the clay from his hands, a huge grin on his face and a gleam in his eye. “Never fear, sister. I shall save you from going on another outing with your grandfather tagging along as your male guard dog, for I will be his replacement!”

“Wait, I still need Jid and Bibi to write his parents!”

Alex had already left the room to grab his coat.

 

Aside from the marching, Alex had forgotten how dreadful all-night picket duty was. And of all the positions, he was stationed in the innermost circle. The last resort to warn camp of an attack or fend off the enemy, if they were to catch the camp unawares. 

Well, at least the tree Alex was leaning against was comfortable. Except it wasn’t. Hadn’t been for the past three hours. (Or was it four? Alex had lost count.) His rifle felt like deadweight. He was starting to think that the snoring coming from the nearby tent was his own personal punishment _and_ temptation.

Alex stuffed his cap between his neck and the tree, hoping it would provide some support. _Feh, not really._

Exhaustion clung to Alex’s eyelashes. He blinked furiously. The only thing keeping him awake by now was the thought of the formidable punishments for falling asleep during picket duty. 

His thoughts wandered to flashing smiles, muffled laughs, and a cold fall afternoon.

 

Acting as Samirah’s male escort was nowhere near as exciting as he’d thought it would be. After being introduced to Amir and joking (read: flirting) with him for a while, Alex was soon cast off as the third wheel. He slunk along a few feet behind the couple, watching with more than a sliver of envy at the way they laughed and glowed around each other. 

The park was practically abandoned - it was late in the afternoon, and the gray sky had gotten carried away trying to replicate the chill of midnight. Alex kicked at a pile of leaves off the side of the path. As much as the boredom was getting to his head, muting most of his emotions to gray, he figured it was worth it to see his sister so happy. She was always so uptight, worrying about Alex, worrying about her grandparents, worrying about the future. She needed someone to be her breath of fresh air.

It was pathetic, he knew, but Alex began drafting a letter in his head. A letter to anyone who would look at him as if he’d given them a piece of the sky.

 

The blank sheet of paper in front of Alex was leering at him. Just taunting him. _Oh, how hard can it be just to write a simple letter? Not like you have anything better to do._

Alex put his pen to the paper, watched as a black stain spread across the white surface. Now _this_ was procrastination at its finest, he thought dully. He should know better by now than to make rash promises. The last letter Alex had written had been fairly decent, but he’d let his mind slip away around the end. He had signed it, _With love, Alex._ He’d practically burst into flames when he read over the letter and found that waiting for him at the end. His hands had damn minds of their own, but now that he was well-grounded he had no idea what to write Magnus. No way would he care about daily camp life or Alex’s midnight ramblings.

Alex dug his heel into the dirt, grunting in frustration. Enough of this. A promise was a promise. He flipped the page over and let his mind detach itself to a mansion tucked away in the backwoods, allowed his hands to scrawl out anything and everything, thoughts that hadn’t even formed themselves fully.

In the end, it was a two-page letter. Alex’s handwriting got messier and messier the further on he went, and his sentences more garbled as well. Certainly not a masterpiece. He dipped his pen in the inkwell one more time and signed with a flourish. Because it made him feel light and warm, but also powerful.

_With love, Alex._

 

“You know, at first I thought Samirah would derail all my plans. All her talk has changed you, my dear Alex.”

Alex didn’t look up from the clay piece he was glazing. “I already told you, I don’t want you here.”

He was refusing to look at his mother - partly because he was disgusted by her presence, but also because she wouldn’t stop shifting from female to male and back again, and it was frankly giving him a headache. Currently, she was sitting on a stool in the corner, her glittering emerald dress taking up a quarter of the room. 

“You’ve grown much closer to Samirah than I thought you would,” Loki continued. “The two of you are so different, I didn’t consider it. But now…”

Her voice trailed off, her tone speculative. Alex kept his face impassive, but he was certain his trembling hands betrayed his fury. He didn’t want to hear about Loki’s next diabolical plan or her thoughts on Samirah. 

Alex snapped off the tip of his paintbrush as he watched Loki’s enormous gown morph into a sleek suit from his peripheral vision. Was his mother doing this just to irritate Alex? If so, it was working better than he was willing to admit. He’d been stuck as male for a while now and was all too eager for a change. It was a shame it didn’t work like that.

Loki was about to go on another long boast when Alex snapped his head up to glare at him. “I’ve been thinking about signing up for the war,” he blurted.

Not a flicker of surprise crossed Loki’s features. But a dangerous spark lit up in his amber eyes. 

His voice was honey when he said, “And why would you ever want to do that?”

“If you think it’s to prove myself to you, you’re wrong. I don’t give a rat’s ass about what you think about me.”

That wasn’t necessarily true. Alex did care whether or not Loki thought he was a dutiful son, since it kept him and Samirah alive. But recently - well, no, not recently; more like in the past year or so - he’d begun to walk quite a thin line between being a competent individual and still pretending to be Loki’s oblivious lapdog.

“You see, that’s the problem,” Loki said, tracing the scars on his cheek. “Or at least, one of its many branches. I’d say the true roots dug their claws in long ago.”

“What are you saying?”

Loki narrowed his eyes. “Do you remember what I told you all those months ago?”

 _To kill the snake, you must first cut off its head._ How could he forget?

Loki nodded, his expression caught between serene and calculating. “You have no business in the army; you won’t last a day.”

He didn’t say it with any hint of emotion - just stating facts. Alex tried his best not to flinch. But his father’s voice rang through his mind: _coward, useless, stupid…_

Alex should have expected Loki to pull this card. To dangle Samirah’s well-being over his head like this, for everything that Alex did out of Loki’s preferences.

Alex began to clean his tools, managing to look nonplussed about Loki’s threats. “I shall go out to purchase a few of my own weapons later today,” he said. “I don’t think rifles and bayonets are quite my thing, so I believe it’s nice to have some backup plans.”

“I could make you a weapon, in fact,” Loki commented. “Pick an object and I’ll make you one right now.”

Alex studied his mother from the corner of his eye. She’d shifted back to female again. Her red hair caught each of the sun’s rays, and her eyes glinted gold. “And how would that benefit you?” Alex asked, turning back to his tools. “You stopped giving a shit about me as soon as you got my father to kick me out.”

“Language, darling,” Loki purred. “I just thought we might still be able to mend this relationship. No point in throwing it out to the wind just yet.”

“Too late, Mother.” Alex inspected the bust he’d been working on. It was one of the worst glazing jobs he’d ever done, with shaky, irregular strokes and poor color choices. “It was thrown out long ago. Now, I’m only going to say this one more time. Get. Out.”

Loki released a delicate, exasperated sigh. “You always make things too hard for yourself. This is precisely why no one ever stays with you for long.”

Alex threw the bust at Loki’s head. She disappeared at the last second, and the clay shattered into a dozen poorly-painted shards as it hit the wall.

 

Alex chucked a rock at a nearby tree, wishing he had something to smash. It was his way of coping since before he could remember. A childish thing, he knew, but that didn’t mean it didn’t work. 

Damned colonel, always quick to find a fight. They’d heard the sound of battle a few miles off and suddenly they were mobilizing to help out their comrades in a small town called Gettysburg. His emotions were strung tight in a tug-of-war between exhilaration and dread. This would be Alex’s first time in action since Bull Run. And yet all he could think about was that he’d never gotten a chance to send that letter he’d written. What a waste. What if it got sullied or torn?

What if he’d never even get the chance to send it?

He kicked at a large rock embedded in the path. Where the other soldiers were calmly writing their names on slips of paper and pinning them to their lapels so their bodies might be identified on the battlefield, Alex refused to acknowledge that death was a very near possibility. He was rather stubborn that way, and not even for the better.

 

This had to be one of Loki’s evil little jokes. Samirah wasn’t even a part of this. This was Alex’s fault, shouldn’t _she_ pay the price for her stubbornness and pride? But no, she still hadn’t learned her lesson, even after she had her one claim to individuality stripped from her.

“Alex?”

Samirah’s thin voice snapped Alex out of her murderous thoughts. Her sister was slumped on the ground, her shaking fingers clawing desperately at her arms. Her breath came out in irregular gasps.

Alex had been dreading this. For Loki to finally pull on a string a little too hard and make it snap. All this to make sure Alex stayed under her thumb. She knew for a fact her mother couldn’t care less about Samirah, for she was already too far gone.

“Alex,” Samirah managed. “Alex, please tell me this is a dream. Just a nightmare.”

She couldn’t say anything. Samirah’s desperate, pleading expression didn’t help.

“Alex, come on. Tell me this isn’t real.”

“I am going to destroy her.”

Samirah balked at Alex’s cold tone. At first had been anger, so much anger that it blotted out her vision with dark red splotches that spread like bloodstains. Now there was only ice. Ice coating every emotion, every precise, direct thought. Nothing muddled, nothing fervid. Alex was almost frightened of her lack of emotion.

“Alex?”

Every time Samirah repeated Alex’s name it became more and more half-hearted. As if she were giving up on her sister as well as her fiancé.

“It can’t be permanent, right?”

“I don’t know,” Alex said. The words tasted bitter. 

Samirah collapsed into Alex. She didn’t quite know what to do with her sister’s blatant display of emotion - she’d never seen her so worked up before, but then again she’d just lost her fiancé to madness - so she wrapped her arms around her and didn’t let go. 

Words didn’t seem to work. No condolences or apologies seemed fit after what had just happened. What were you supposed to say when your sister lost her childhood friend, her future husband, to a hysteria not at all natural?

Samirah had told Alex of the time Loki tried to open her grandparents’ eyes to her world, but it had only lasted a little while. However, if Loki were to show them her entire world, complete with its all-too-real myths, magic, and mayhem, the damage to their minds would be irreversible. Mortals were not wired to comprehend any world outside of their own.

So that was exactly what Loki had done to Amir.

It had almost been too easy. Alex didn’t know exactly what she’d shown Samirah’s fiancé, but it was enough to break him. 

What Alex couldn’t understand was why Loki would have done it. It seemed a very strange way to get across to Alex. Less direct than she had anticipated.

“We can fix this,” Samirah mumbled. “We’ll fix this, right?”

Alex knew there was a very small possibility of that happening. Loki was always very thorough in her destruction, and no way would she let Samirah even get a chance to save Amir. There was something else up her sleeve, of that Alex was certain.

Hmm. She might be able to get used to this analytical kind of thinking. It was certainly less stressful and not at all cumbersome.

“Of course,” she said.

 

_Cold heart. No heart. That is how you survive._

Alex had been repeating that same mantra in his head for the past half hour or so. Every so often it would die out under the storm of gunfire and shouting, but then he would fire his rifle, or catch sight of another mangled body, and it would come roaring back in his ears. Yet it always returned more feeble than the last time.

_Cold heart. No heart. That is how you survive._

 

Was it possible to be so full of emotion that you would explode? Because that was what it felt like, to be so full of fury and grief that Alex wondered if she would just _end_ right here and now.

There was a time when there might have been hope for Samirah. But then again, there was a time when none of this would even be happening. Not with level-headed, practical Samirah.

She was dead, though. 

See, pain did strange things. At Amir’s sudden change in personality - his mind broken, he was now about 80% more unstable - the engagement had been broken off. That was the last straw. Samirah just... snapped. It wasn’t the kind of breakdown Alex would have expected. It was slow, almost imperceptible. Like Samirah’s sanity was held up by sturdy ropes, and every day chafed at them a little more, until they were so frayed that they were hanging by only a couple of threads.

It had started a long time ago, before everything that happened with Amir, Alex could see that now. It was marked only by her increasingly rare visits, her stressful rants, and the more frequent bursts of annoyance. Was it the weight of her grandparents’ expectations, or Loki’s antics, or her worries about Alex’s well-being? Was it an overwhelming mixture of all that and more?

The sound of the front door slamming shut startled Alex out of her thoughts. She launched herself off her bed, smoothed out the wrinkles in her trousers, and poked her head out of the bedroom door just as Samirah stepped inside. 

“This is your fault.”

She looked just as refined as usual - simple green hijab, pressed black dress, perfect posture - but her eyes were... wild. They were dull, but also blazed with something that bordered on hysteria. Equal parts exhausted and insane. Barely noticeable to anyone who didn’t know her. 

Samirah leaned on the doorframe and closed her eyes. “Why did you not tell me?”

Alex sank into a chair silhouetted by the pale sunlight streaming through the window. “Tell you what?”

Her half-sister marched up to her and shoved a slip of paper in her face. A picture of an eagle holding a flag that read “Down With The Rebellion” spread its wings across the top of the page. Below that, in big, bold letters was written: _Volunteers Needed! Able-bodied men needed for 11th Massachusetts State Volunteers under Colonel George Clark, Jr._

Samirah snatched back the paper before Alex could finish reading the entire poster. 

“Patriotic men needed to avenge Fort Sumter,” Samirah read aloud, her voice trembling. “State and Federal bounties will be paid to each volunteer on enlistment. Don’t tell me it just slipped your mind to tell me.”

Well, it was kind of true. But Alex had also been dreading breaking the news to her, and her current instability had not helped matters.

“Is this why _she_ did all that? With - with Amir and forcing your changes on her own conditions? All to stay in control, or something like that?”

Alex opened her mouth to say something, but Samirah plowed on.

“I am truly sorry. I suppose I’m not enough for you, if you have to go off and join the army as well. Oh, well. I don’t really care about any of that, I am not even enough for myself.

“But what I want to know is _why?_ What is it for - the money, the glory, pride?”

She’d begun to pace, whereas Alex still sat frozen in her seat by the window.

Alex sighed. “I’m just tired of not knowing where Loki ends and I begin.”

It wasn’t the _complete_ truth. Sometimes it felt like her father’s words clung to her like a cat’s persistent claws, sometimes it was her stepmother’s fussing hands. But it still stood - as it was, Alex Fierro was more of a concept than a distinct person.

Samirah stood stock-still for a while, her expression distant, as if she’d finally gotten word of her execution and couldn’t muster the strength to feel anything but resigned. The paper slipped from her grasp. Alex watched intently as it fluttered to the floor, because she wasn’t ready to look her sister in the eyes.

“Go then,” Samirah said. “If you want this.”

“Really?”

“Just go!” Samirah shouted, clutching her head and turning in a tight circle. “You caused all this! I don’t even know what is real anymore. I don’t... know...”

Alex didn’t stand, or offer any kind of comfort. She just sat there, staring up at her sister. Her lovely, broken sister.

“I think I am going to stay here for a while,” Samirah said, then proceeded to collapse on the floor, folding like a house of cards. Alex could tell she was holding back tears - whether they were tears of frustration or fear or something else, she could not tell.

Alex sank down next to her. Samirah’s words pried at her skin, gnawing and buzzing incessantly. But since it was all true, she didn’t try to swat them away.

 

Three days of that same distorted symphony repeated over and over on the battlefield and on to the small town nearby, so much so that it soon became white noise. 

 

It only got worse after that. Samirah spent less time around Alex, and when she did, she looked pained because of it. Alex spent those times adding the final touches to her piece for Samirah, trying to ignore the way her sister sent her thinly-veiled looks of betrayal. She did not seem to realize she was growing to despise Alex, but Alex knew enough to notice the signs.

In this way, the piece came out... wrong. It was a sculpture that could fit in the palm of Alex’s hand, but it was highly detailed. From the creases in the hijab to the folds in the dress to the feathers on the wings, everything was painstakingly crafted and painted. The tiny replica of Samirah had an expression of longing on her face, her hands spread in front of her as if trying to hold something only she could see. Pearlescent wings sprouted from her back, spread wide.

Still, it looked off. It was not relevant anymore, and the sight of it left a bitter taste in Alex’s mouth.

Alex picked up the statue and slammed it against the table, taking satisfaction in the way the wings cracked and crumbled away from the rest of the figurine. She added a splash of red glaze to the jagged pieces on the shoulder blades where the wings used to be, even though it had already been fired for the last time and the glaze looked pale and dull against the brighter colors.

It seemed Loki was influencing Alex’s thoughts and emotions as well. She had resigned herself to this already, which was why she let herself drift. Joining the war no longer felt like such a sacrifice, because what was a sacrifice worth if there was nothing to leave behind?

 

Alex deserved this. The hot, sticky blood and the stench of bodies and the deafening sound of cannons. But in the end... they’d won? _The Union had won._ Alex was by no means a prophet, but it felt like the turning point in the war. They might have hope just yet. 

Then why did he feel like there was an enormous weight resting on his shoulders, pushing down on him more and more with each passing day? The fighting of man against man may have ended already, but the battle had not truly ended. The night, which was just trying to recover from the nonstop fighting of the past few days, was disrupted by the screams and cries of the soon-to-be-dead, though the surgeons and nurses tried their best.

Alex had been spared, thankfully. He stood in the shadows of the trees, watching the bodies being lined up on the battlefield. 

Had he really forsaken monotony and safety for terror and adrenaline? _You fuck-up._

And so Alex was crying again.


	13. Magnus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you read close enough, you can see my own blood sweat and tears staining this chapter

After awhile, Magnus had almost forgotten what the mansion had been like before it had been opened as a convalescent home. 

For one thing, silence had permeated the halls in a way that felt like speaking or making any kind of noise at all would anger the entity that lived in the shadows of the mansion. 

He hated it, to say the least. When his mother had been alive, he’d lived with her in a room they’d rented from a family Natalie knew from her time working in a women’s college. True, they hadn’t had much, but that had hardly mattered. It was comfortable, safe, and the house was always suitably noisy.

In Randolph’s mansion, however, there was hardly any sign that it was actually _lived_ in. When all there was to occupy the 50 rooms of the mansion was old manuscripts written in a variety of languages long out of fashion, artifacts from 900 years ago, and two people who tried to stay out of each other’s way as best possible, the sound of Randolph’s cane rhythmically hitting the wood floors could feel deafeningly loud, fear-inducing.

Well, that had all changed when the war came bursting through the front door, as it did to most everyone in the nation, especially to those living so close to the capital.

As fighting began to break out nearby, the Chase mansion was soon filled with newly-hired nurses and doctors as well as tired, sickly soldiers from both sides of the war. Gone were the paintings lining the walls of the expansive dining room, replaced with cots pushed up together as close as comfortably possible. Gone were the shelves covered with books and artifacts in the library; instead they were stuffed with bottles of medicine and rolls of bandages. The furniture in the entrance hall grew worn, the carpet could be found coated in several mysterious stains.

But the most notable change was the noise. The noise was unabashed, relentless, swelling. With the crypt-silence Magnus had experienced before, he had almost welcomed it.

It had been about two years since then. The mansion’s noise was familiar now, background music. Still, there was something missing, and Magnus had a pretty clear idea of what. Or rather, _who_. He just didn’t like to entertain the notion, since it made him feel flustered and bemused, and that in turn made him feel pathetic and even _more_ bemused.

He’d never really been a “reflection clears the mind” kind of person.

Magnus had been wandering around the mansion as of late, reminiscing of those days before the war without much fondness. Business in the mansion was slow these days, and he needed something to do. 

It was one of those days when he found himself hanging around his uncle Randolph’s office. Which was strange all in itself; he wouldn’t enter his uncle’s office if it was the only safe place in the midst of the war. 

He stared at the glass case nailed to the wall in front of him. It was full of old Viking artifacts, unlabeled. Randolph’s desk sat underneath it, in all its cluttered and dysfunctional glory. Wrinkled papers, various writing utensils, old tomes, and the like covered every inch of the mahogany.

“Shit,” Magnus muttered. Enough was enough, he had to get Mallory to let him join a field group. 

Before he knew what he was doing, he’d sat down at Randolph’s desk and began to organize the papers scattered about into a neat pile. He also began to shelve the books in order of how old and ugly they looked. He was doing pretty well for a while until he came across two equally enormous, moldy volumes. He eventually just stuffed them both in randomly.

He turned to the letters next. Some of the envelopes hadn’t even been opened, though they were dated from some time ago. A vast majority of them were from Boston. As in, Boston, Massachusetts. As in, the same Boston his uncle was - presumably - still galavanting around in search of a magical solution to end the war. Well, it had been months without any word from Randolph, so if he were to have died or gone missing or who-knows-what-else, Magnus would be the last person to know.

In an arbitrary decision on his part, he pulled out a random envelope from the pile before him - one of the Boston letters, written in bold, flourishing lettering - and tore open the seal. It was dated late December, from before Randolph had left. There was no return address.

_Randolph, I have to say that I am growing impatient. You know me; I cannot bear to wait, and I have already been worn thin. So, if you still desire the best out of this arrangement, I would suggest you hurry up and fulfill your end of the bargain. We shall see how it goes from there._

“The hell are you doing in here?”

Magnus jumped at the sound of Mallory’s familiar, brash voice. He hastily gathered together all the envelopes he’d been sifting through, then turned around in his uncle’s chair. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“You’re wasting your time up here searching through his old records, you are needed downstairs.”

He fixed her with a long stare. “Am I really?”

“Yes. I’m organizing another field group, and we’re short-staffed. You are skilled, they are not, come on, are you really so dense?” She stood fists balled in her skirts, her face blotchy red and her expression vexed. It pained her to admit he was needed, that was obvious enough.

Magnus raised his eyebrows in mock surprise, trying to hide his enthusiasm. “Oh, so you’re finally giving in due to pure necessity?”

“Just this once,” Mallory warned, but Magnus didn’t care. One step at a time, right? He’d convince her of his capability... eventually. 

“When will we leave?” he asked instead.

She’d already turned back into the hallway and was heading for the stairs when she called back, “Early tomorrow. Something has broken out in a small town in Pennsylvania. If we take the most direct route we should get there in less than two days.”

“Thank you, Mallory!” he said to her retreating back.

She released a disgruntled sigh and waved at him, more in a “piss off” kind of gesture than a form of farewell.

Magnus grinned to himself for a moment. At least one victory might be salvaged from this past mess of a month. His head felt clearer than it had in a while. 

Still, as he went to close the door behind him, something made him pause in the threshold. The sight of Randolph’s desk, still cluttered with all those unopened letters. Mallory’s announcement had pushed all thoughts of the mysterious letter from his mind, but now they all came flooding back. Despite his better judgment (which he was lacking in anyway), he crossed the room again, gathered up all the envelopes he could, stacked them in a neat pile, and stuffed them into his pockets.

Magnus sighed. He could do this, couldn’t he? One thing at a time, and his most pressing issue at the moment was preparing for his journey to Pennsylvania.

 

Mallory found him the next day pouring the contents of near-empty whiskey flasks into larger containers and placing those in sturdy wooden crates. He knew they’d need every drop they could find.

Mallory appeared behind him seemingly out of nowhere. She reached around him and picked up the crate of whiskey bottles. “I swear, you’re the slowest member of our team. Hurry up with whatever else you need to bring, we are all waiting outside.”

“Wait, there’s still one more bottle -”

She’d already left, so Magnus grabbed his coat and followed Mallory outside. A handful of other nurses were packing crates of bandages, bottles of anesthesia, alcohol, and surgery tools into three wagons, all built in with dozens of chests of drawers. 

“Mallory, when did we buy supply wagons?” he asked. They were all in top condition, each pulled by four to six horses, and as much as he liked the idea of not having to drag everything all the way to Pennsylvania with just the old carts they had stored in the shed, he was certain they didn’t have this kind of money. 

“Well, Halfborn bought them just yesterday in town. Says he still had some wages left unspent from when he was serving, but if you ask me he stole it from the other soldiers.” She seemed completely unconcerned by this thought.

“That’s terrible,” Magnus protested. “Stealing from other soldiers? Really? Wounded, tormented soldiers that might have to pay for their families back home? Is that what we’ve resorted to now?”

“Would you like to go in there and ask around about anyone’s missing pocket change?” Mallory asked, raising an eyebrow at him contemptuously.

Magnus grumbled under his breath a moment longer but didn’t put up any more of a fight. He’d make Halfborn repay whoever he’d stolen from later, even if the man was a terrifying, hulking ex-soldier of the Union Army. 

“You’ll walk by the wagons,” Mallory informed him as she climbed up onto the seat at the front of the vehicle. “Ladies up front.”

“You’re a lady about as much as I’m a gentleman,” Magnus muttered.

“Sweetheart,” Mallory said, smirking.

In reality, Magnus didn’t mind walking. He just put up the fuss for Mallory’s benefit. After a while, the pain in his calves felt welcome, as it gave him something else to think about besides whatever horrors he’d find in Pennsylvania.

After some time, though, Louise took pity on him. He’d begun to lag behind the last wagon, and she stopped the vehicle to jump off it. Magnus put up plenty of protests, but she insisted, and she looked ready to pick him up herself when he finally relented. She pushed him lightly, an ironic smile on her lips for reasons he couldn’t discern.

The wagon was indeed well-crafted and new and expensive. The wooden seat became uncomfortable soon enough, but Magnus couldn’t complain. It was better than walking his feet off.

Plus, the horses loved him, though he had no idea why.

When they arrived in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, they found the town near deserted. Dead animals littered the alleyways. Homes were riddled with holes and abandoned, some no better than scraps. The buildings that still managed to remain standing were dark and sealed off. A ghost town.

The fields and woods, on the other hand, was clogged with smoke, makeshift camps, and bodies. Mostly bodies. Some were lined up for mass burial, but most remained flung across the hills broken and foul-smelling. Magnus passed by a man in a coat so faded it was more dirty white than gray slouched up against a wooden fence. His arm was bent at an unnerving angle over his stomach, his rifle abandoned a couple feet away. The area around his left eye was a mangled mess of flesh hanging in chunks and strands like processed meat.

Magnus swallowed and walked up to the man. He nudged the rebel with his foot, just to make sure he was dead. But instead of his body flopping aside uselessly, his fingers twitched. Magnus jumped. The man didn’t make any kind of noise, nor did he try to move his head or open his one remaining eye. But the fingers of his left hand just kept twitching. They wouldn’t stop.

“Quit lagging,” Mallory muttered behind him, making him flinch again. “He’s already gone.”

“He’s alive,” Magnus argued.

“Look at him,” snapped Mallory. “How could you carry him without just finishing him off? Besides, that wound is probably already infected. You know this.”

Magnus had nothing to say to that. Mallory was right, of course. He wasn’t stupid; he knew why Mallory had refused to bring him along for so long. She’d noted the way he lingered by the bedsides of soldiers on the verge of death, and mourned them as though he knew them personally for a long time afterward. This was not model behavior for a nurse or doctor or whatever he deigned to call himself.

Mallory might tease him with words like “useless” but a part of him knew that she thought his heart just a bit too fragile for fieldwork. Jack had said it wasn’t for him and also not-so-subtly alluded to the idea that Magnus might not work the best in such high-pressure situations as this. Magnus had shrugged him off and thanked him rather sardonically for the advice.

Still, now he couldn’t help but think that Jack might have been right. Working in a convalescent home was different from doing fieldwork, he knew that much. In a field hospital, he’d be working on the front lines, fresh blood and hysteria and all.

He shook off that thought almost as soon as it occurred to him. He might be a coward sometimes - well, most times - but he could handle these things no problem.

Mallory must have gotten tired of watching him deliberate, because she groaned and grabbed his forearm, dragging him along behind their little troop. Magnus began to protest, but when he looked back at the soldier, his fingers had stopped twitching. Magnus wasn’t quite sure if that meant it was too late, or if Mallory was right and it had already been too late long before he arrived, but he still couldn’t ignore the wave of guilt that struck him as he stared at the soldier’s limp, mangled body.

They walked in silence for a while, passing through the town into the fields surrounding it, where a multitude of miscellaneous buildings had been converted into makeshift hospitals. Farther away, Magnus could see that tents had been set up closer to the battlefield as well.

“We’re rather late to the party, aren’t we?” he muttered. 

Though her back was turned to him, he could practically feel Mallory rolling her eyes. “Well, we don’t exactly live in the next town over. The only reason we came was because we’d gotten word that this battle was already racking up casualties higher than the doctors currently available could handle.”

“Why does no one inform me of these things first?”

Mallory groaned. “Because you’ve been acting like a ghost for the past three weeks. Drifting through the mansion, not talking to anyone, what has gotten into you?”

“Oh...” She was right, of course. He still couldn’t shake the feeling that he was living through a fog. Ridiculous, of course. He looked down at his shoes, studying the frayed laces with interest. “I’m sorry -”

“Shut up,” Mallory said. “No need to be wallowing all the time. Just take care of your patients and your mansion, that’s enough.”

“It’s not _my -_ ”

“Maybe not legally, but as far as anyone knows your uncle could be dead. He hasn’t sent any word to you at all since he left, has he?”

“No, but then again the post isn’t in the best conditions lately.”

“I say good riddance.” Mallory chuckled to her herself. “If you find him months from now locked up in some asylum or other, just let him rot there.”

That might be a little harsh, he thought, but then again... Randolph hadn’t been much help at all when Magnus had told him of his idea to turn the mansion into a convalescent home for incapacitated soldiers of the war. He’d been complacent enough in the beginning, when Magnus had first pitched the idea to him, but as soon as Magnus brought up the issue of funding the endeavor, and what that would mean for Randolph’s investigation on his family’s deaths, he’d shot it down fast. It took a lot of negotiation, strained compromises, and plenty of sneaking behind Randolph’s back until it was too late for him to argue against for Magnus to set up the mansion as it was now. Still, even as the war raged on and their funds dwindled, Randolph held back many precious resources in some kind of desperate desire that they’d lend some benefit in his search for “the truth.”

Magnus was struck from his thoughts when he rammed into Mallory’s back. She’d stopped dead in her tracks and was murmuring something to another nurse unpacking a bundle of blankets from the last wagon.

Magnus backed away quickly, turning to the next wagon to help Louise unload crates full of clanking medicine bottles. 

“Where exactly are we taking these?” he asked, cutting a glance around the surrounding fields. A few tents were set up nearby, and a humble house and barn crowded with nurses, surgeons, and soldiers were located closer to the battlefield than Magnus liked.

Louise nodded towards the home. “I’m assuming we’re meant to help out over there.”

“Wonderful, the place is about the size of our porch.”

Louise peered at him critically. “You are welcome to go out on the battlefield and scrounge up the deceased from every godforsaken shadowy hole out there, if you’d prefer.”

He’d seen the rows of dead bodies lined out on the hills like crops, and the scent of decay had followed on the wind even before he’d caught sight of the source of such a terrible smell. Magnus certainly didn’t want to go anywhere nearer to the battlefield than was necessary. “No, ma’am.”

Louise reached out and grabbed his wrist then. He jumped at the sudden movement, but she just inspected his hand, tsking. “Wash your hands. Can’t have you treating folks with the amount of grime you’ve collected over the past few days.”

He just nodded. Her grip was tight, uncomfortable.

“A few ground rules, also,” Louise said, almost to herself. “Since you’re new to this kind of work. I warn you now, there will be a lot more people on the verge of death. Do not linger by the sick, those who look emotionally or mentally unstable; that job is for the matrons. _Do not_ try to attempt surgery - I cannot believe I have to tell you that - but I know how you just love to get in over your head.”

“You know, I’d almost think you see me as incompetent,” Magnus drawled.

Louise frowned apologetically. “I’m just warning you not to pull yourself too thin. Focus on what you know you do best, and be efficient.”

“Of course.” Magnus nodded, but he fell back a few steps, pretending that the boxes he was carrying were weighing him down.

Mallory and her troupe showed up at the house a little while after Magnus and Louise did. The barn was already overflowing with patients, so they moved to the house, which wasn’t much better, since the rooms were small and there were more soldiers in need of treatment than there were actual people to treat them. 

The house in question had been inhabited by a one John Slentz, who had supposedly taken shelter with his family in the town of Gettysburg when the fighting started. Magnus felt a bit embarrassed over the fact that they’d pretty much just stolen a family’s home and were now using it to take care of bloody, broken soldiers, a large handful of which were on the verge of death.

The system they’d set up was holding together well enough, Magnus found. Nurses rushed through the two-story house with strips of sheets or bedspreads to make up for the lack of manufactured bandages. Outside, surgeons had brought out tables and tents and had set to operating in the open space. Magnus quickly turned away from the sight of so much blood and the sawed-off limbs that was creating quite a gruesomely impressive pile.

It appeared that before they’d arrived with more workforce and supplies, the farm-turned-hospital had been lacking in both. Magnus followed Louise for a while, trying to adjust to the frantic energy swirling about the house, so unlike the steady pace of the mansion.

He shook his head, silently chastising himself. There was no time for feeling awkward, and there was no time for pretending this house was a compelling photograph published in the newspaper for sheltered Northerners to pore over.

Magnus turned on his heel, darting past a matron carrying a crate packed with bottles of anesthesia (one of the boxes of provisions they’d brought with them, in fact). He was just about to dump his own crate of supplies by the others when the matron he’d previously ran into turned around and called out to him. He stilled.

“If you’re here with the new group,” she said, “I’d say the surgeons might need assistance out there. And I’ll bet they’ll need that whiskey as well.”

Louise’s warning flashed through his mind, and he started to say, “I’m actually -”

“It would be most appreciated,” she said, fixing him with a serious stare.

He nodded mutely, and immediately cursed himself internally. Of all the jobs to sign up for, it had to be the one involving the most blood and limbs or lack thereof; not to mention the one medical area he knew the least about. Louise would have his head, if the surgeons didn’t cut it off as soon as he showed them how incompetent he was.

But the look of relief on the matron’s face made it near impossible to refuse.

“Thank you for the supplies, by the way,” the matron added. “You came just in time.”

Her eyes were tired, so tired. Though Magnus couldn’t say that he felt any more stable at the moment, and the real work hadn’t even begun.

There were five or six surgeons working outside, and about twice as many people to assist them. This seemed terribly inadequate, considering the number of people in need of the most drastic of treatments. Magnus was willing to bet that there wasn’t half as much blood out on the battlefield than there was here.

Well, he’d already convinced himself that he wouldn’t be deterred, not by anything. He made promises; he liked to keep them.

Magnus didn’t allow himself much time to take in his surroundings. He caught sight of a man in a long, threadbare overcoat standing by a tent and forced his feet to carry him in that direction. He hefted the crate packed with alcohol bottles in his arms to a more comfortable position; the wooden panels had been digging into his forearms for a while now.

The man in the overcoat didn’t seem to notice Magnus approaching. He stumbled to a halt a few feet away from the man, biting his lip nervously. He couldn’t adequately put it into words, but this didn’t feel right.

Which was probably the dumbest thought he’d ever had. He sighed and stepped forward, gathering the conviction to speak. “Excuse me?” 

Overcoat turned around from inspecting the surgical tools laid out on the table by the tent (or whatever he was doing). He looked Magnus up and down for a moment before comprehending the crate he was holding up and the fact that he didn’t seem to be in much hurry.

“Do you have anywhere I could leave this?” Magnus asked. “It’s heavy, and I’ve been carrying it for a while, and I was told you might need it? And if you need an extra set of hands I guess I could help out as well?” God, did he wish he couldn’t talk.

But Overcoat just raised his eyebrows and took the crate from Magnus’s hands without a word. He canted his head in the direction of another nearby tent and turned his back on Magnus, his eyes skipping over the bottles of whiskey as if counting them.

Magnus left him to his task, heading in the direction the man had pointed him towards. The tent was large compared to all the others in the general vicinity, to which he was marginally grateful. He sighed and pushed back the entrance flap.

What he found was a fair number of soldiers missing a hand or a leg or a foot, while others were simply covered in so much blood he couldn’t tell where their actual wounds might be. There were also a handful of nurses, each entirely absorbed in their tasks. He caught sight of one woman murmuring something to a man lying on the ground, his head resting in her lap. He didn’t appear to be breathing, Magnus noted, and he didn’t feel much shock at the realization. The man’s face was sweaty and red, his right arm heavily bandaged and cradled close to his chest. Nevertheless, the attendant who had been watching over him gingerly brushed a wet strand of hair from his forehead as though that might make him feel more comfortable. She closed her eyes briefly before standing up, tapping the broad shoulder of a man standing nearby, and stepping away from the soldier lying on the ground. The other man didn’t hesitate to lift the body up over his shoulder. He shoved past Magnus and lumbered outside, carrying the soldier without ceremony.

Only then did the woman who had been tending to the dead man notice him. She raised an eyebrow at him, but when she opened her mouth all she said was, “I do hope you have a purpose for being here. There isn’t any room for lingering strangers like yourself.” She grabbed a rough blanket from a pile and handed it to a nurse, who unfurled it and threw it over a twitching soldier.

Magnus bit his lip. This wasn’t any different from dealing with the folks he’d had under his care back at the mansion. Treating malaria was… relatively the same as treating post-surgery infection.

So he hoped.

Magnus snatched up a bowl of water that was resting on a table and poured most of its contents over his hand, remembering what Louise had said about washing his hands (he assumed this was the bowl’s purpose; if not, he was going to feel like an idiot). He rubbed his hands together and dried them off on his shirt. This was probably the last he was going to see of this particular garment, he thought. He’d probably have to burn it after he was done here.

“What would you have me do?” he asked the icy attendant.

Without missing a beat, she took a sponge, a metal cone, and a few bottles of chloroform from a small crate resting by the water bowl and placed them in his hands. “Go back out there and provide relief for anyone who might soon be going under those old sawbones’ weapons. Don’t give them too much, or they’ll die, don’t give them too little or they’ll still feel their bones being cut clean through.”

Magnus nodded, feeling a little faint. This wasn’t going to be like treating malaria. 

Still, he’d been feeling useless ever since they’d left the mansion (perhaps even before that, when the balance in the mansion had been upturned by the absence of simply one person), and so he stumbled back out into the unfamiliar night of a foreign town. He immediately found the man in the overcoat standing by a table under a tree, washing a large, thin saw with a bloody rag. This didn’t seem to succeed in anything besides making the instrument even dirtier, but Magnus wasn’t in a place to comment.

As for Overcoat’s patient, a boy a couple years younger than Magnus was lying on the table, shivering and breathing heavily. He looked half-delirious; Magnus wondered how much alcohol they’d already given him to numb the pain.

Which suddenly made him realize that he didn’t know how much chloroform you were supposed to give a patient in a given situation without killing them. 

Magnus rushed over, fumbling with the anesthetics he was carrying. There were two other nurses along with Overcoat, a man and a woman.

The man noticed him first, and called him over. When he reached the little group, Magnus placed the bottles on the table and took a moment to catch his breath before speaking. “If any of you need, er, any of this before you get to work, here it is?”

Overcoat stared at him for a minute, then quietly chuckled. He gestured to his patient as if to say _Be my guest._

Magnus was really regretting this by now. He was fully aware that he might be condoning this boy to death - from an overdose of chloroform no less. Still, foolishly, he uncorked one of the bottles and poured a tiny bit of it onto the sponge. As he was moving to put the bottle back down, the man reached out and took the sponge from his hand, as well as the metal cone. He administered a few more drops of the anesthesia and purposefully nestled the sponge into the cone. He then placed it over his patient’s mouth, avoiding Magnus’s gaze. The boy seemed too weak to put up much of a fight, and in a matter of minutes, his eyes were heavy-lidded and glazed over.

That was when Overcoat pulled out the saw, and Magnus gathered up the chloroform bottles and the supplies and left as quickly as possible. He tried not to look behind as he moved on to the next people who might need relief from their pain.

He went from tent to tent, table to table. Some people already had their own batch of anesthetics, and some used alcohol instead. After awhile he learned how much chloroform you were actually meant to give a person, and he noted with satisfaction that he never once did paralyze someone, which he considered to be a great success.

After that Magnus had taken to carrying out odd jobs throughout the makeshift hospital. This consisted of washing out the soldiers’ grimy clothes, bandaging their fresh surgery wounds, or delivering supplies from the house to the barn to the tents. He never once got a chance to sit down and rest, or to even get a drink of water; not that he much noticed his discomfort, surrounded by the needs and demands of so many people at once. Though the battle had occurred nearly two days ago, there never seemed to be an end to the blood and bodies and _limbs_. Magnus never wanted to see another pile of hacked-off arms and legs again, not that he had even wanted to beforehand.

He marked the passage of time by the constellations that appeared in the sky over the duration of the night. Many of them he recognized from the times his mother would bring him to the women’s college in the dead of night. They would climb to the rooftops simply to watch the stars and point out the glimmering patterns they etched across the sky.

He missed that. He missed everything from _before._ All he had now was dirty rags used to clean the sweat and blood off the brows of people he’d been too cowardly to fight alongside.

Still, he supposed the sickly sweet, flammable smell of the medicine he handled was its own source of comfort that he couldn’t explain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YES I'M ALIVE
> 
> Lemme just say that 2/3 of the time spent on this chapter was just a whole shit-ton of research, so idk I hope it was worth it


End file.
